yes.

Din Djarin

Starlight by LovelessDagger | 300k

Summary: Nothing ever truly dies. Not the Empire, not the dark, not her. The Mandalorian should know this, and somewhere deep down he does. Whether he cares is a different story. Consequences and the whole of them be damned.

Tags: Assassins & Hitmen, Enemies to Lovers, Slow Burn, Blood and Violence, Explicit Language. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Morally Ambiguous Character, OFC, Trauma, Found Family, Betrayal, Secrets, Touch-Starved Din Djarin, Filled with existential dread, Sexual Tension, Heavy symbolism, two idiots with family issues form a family, Past Child Abuse, Mutual Pining, Angst, Eventual Smut, Clones, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sith, Imperial Inquisitors, Secret Past, No one tells the truth, Metaphorical Addiction

I Only See Daylight by @millersdjarin | 141.6k

Summary: You’ve stayed in one place all this time, knowing that any move to leave could lead them to find you. When a Mandalorian and his child crash land on your home planet, you can't turn them away for help.

Tags: Smut, slow burn, post-canon, trauma, past emotional/physical abuse, relgious trauma, scars, negative self-image, found family, injury, heavy angst, fluff and love

A Fresh Start by @theidiotwhowritesthings | 140k

Summary: When you made plans for your future they never involved being hired by a Mandalorian to baby-sit his adorable, green gremlin of a child. However, after your life fell apart in the span of one disastrous night, you found it to be the only feasible option you had left. Nevarro was a far cry from Coruscant, but the thriving community turned out to be exactly what you needed. Every day you spend in Nevarro you fall more and more in love with your new life, but when your past rears its ugly head you find that perhaps peace wasn’t meant for everyone.

Tags: use of fake name, reader is hiding from a shady past, depressive symptoms, jealousy, pining, angst, hurt/comfort, medical trauma, nightmares, blood, injury, traumatic past, scars, slow burn, shooting training, sick child, fear and panic, canon typical violence, blackmailing, anxiety, self doubt, sexual tension, heavy petting, panic attack, male masturbation, arguing, mentions of alcohol and a bit of binge drinking, angst, people getting drunk, non descriptive torture, murder, fluff, mentions of death, non consensual groping of reader by a stranger, smut, oral f receiving

Stitches by @djarinsbeskar | 190k

Summary: What is a former combat medic to do when an injured Mandalorian stumbles upon her clinic one night on Klatooine?

Tags: Smut, action, fluff, angst, canon-typical violence

Beskar Doll by @justagalwhowrites | 232.4k

Summary: You have a knack for finding trouble, be it in the midst of Galactic Civil War or when trying to live the quiet life after getting out of the game. So when you're stuck fleeing your new home planet after pissing off the wrong people - again - there's only one person willing to take you: the Mandalorian. But after years of fighting faceless men, you're not the trusting type toward someone always wearing a helmet and the Mandalorian quickly suspects there's more to you than he knows.

Tags: Slow Burn, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Canon-Typical Violence, Pre-Canon, Eventual Smut, Eventual Romance, Dry Humping, Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Mando'a Language (Star Wars), Protective Din Djarin, Touch-Starved Din Djarin, Din Djarin Removes the Helmet, Past Domestic Violence, Brat Tamer Din Djarin, Vaginal Fingering, Soft Din Djarin, POV Din Djarin, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Angst, Mandalorian Culture (Star Wars), Mutual Masturbation, Masturbation, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, PIV, Unsafe Sex, Consent King Din Djarin, Din Djarin's Helmet Stays on During Sex, Vaginal Sex, Din Djarin talks you through it, Making Love, Pregnancy

Best Kept Secret by @lincolndjarin | 188k

Summary: Married off to a prince on a planet that you hate? New husband doesn't know you, and doesn't want to know you? New husband gifts you a personal Mandalorian body guard as a wedding present? Mandalorian is a wiseass who won't leave you alone? Lucky you.

Tags: no y/n, Enemies to Lovers, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, Canon-Typical Violence, Princess!Reader, Arranged Marriage, bodyguard!din, Smut, Angst, Fluff and Angst, Eventual Happy Ending, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Glove Kink, Light Dom/sub, Switch Din Djarin, Switch Reader, Body Worship, Din Djarin Has a Breeding Kink, Hate Sex, Creampie, Sex Toys, Anal Play, Overstimulation, Multiple Orgasms, eventual pregnancy (right at the end)

Be-All and Endor by @djarins-cyare | 400k

Summary: Languishing in a dull and lonely existence on the forest moon of Endor after travelling there to help salvage Death Star wreckage, a nearly fatal encounter with a mysterious bounty hunter out in the forest heralds an opportunity to utilise long-forgotten skills and develop something more profound than you ever thought possible.

Tags: Slow Burn, Slow Build, Romance, Love, Sexual Tension, Eventual Smut, Smut, Sex, Sexual Content, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Fluff and Angst, Light Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Relationships, Healthy Relationships, Canon-Typical Violence, Blood and Injury, Dark Past, Additional Warnings In Author's Notes, Bounty Hunter Din Djarin, Soft Din Djarin, Touch-Starved Din Djarin, Din Djarin Needs a Hug, Smart Din Djarin, Soft Dominant Din Djarin, Ewok Species, Mandalorian Culture, Mando'a Language, New Razor Crest, Thoroughly Researched, Worldbuilding, No use of y/n.

A Place of Safety by The_InvisibleWoman (AO3) | 178k

Summary: Persuaded into picking up one last quarry on his way home, an exhausted Mandalorian is in no mood for you, but he slowly begins to think that things are not as they should be. You’ve been on the run for so long and you don’t even know who from, but when you are captured by the bounty hunter, you think it’s all over.

Tags: Smut, slow burn, protective!Din, touch starvation, Din Djarin's point of view, fluff, angst, mutual pining, enemies to friends to lovers, rescue, falling in love, flirting, close proximity, gentle kissing, gentle sex, cuddling, threats of sexual assault, attempted sexual assault, self harm, tickling, noncon

Wrest Pin by BalletOrchard (AO3) | 366k

Summary: “I can help you escape the planet,” Mando said sharply, “But I want information in return.” She looked up at him through the small hairs on her face and she whispered, sounding almost lost…As if she didn’t know what else to say… “I have no information.” Something Mando did not believe.

Tags: panic attacks, force sensitive!reader, unprotected PinV sex, smut, mando is a dick, angst, slow burn (romantically), touch starved!din, bickering, arguing, post season 1, fluff, ofc!evangeline, she like doesn’t get off the first time they fuck which i feel like is worth noting, feelings of regret, minor character death (evangeline’s whole fam), follows canon, mando lowkey keeping evangeline against her will but like she’s hiding from the empire so, near death experience(s), the helmet comes off, oral f receiving, blindfolding, shower sex

Somewhere Beautiful by @peetiespetals | 235k

Summary: You have been working as a slave since the demise of your people and destruction of your planet. A stranger passes through your life and you make a bid for freedom, thwarted by the very man who inspired you to reach for it. In a twist of fate, the two of you are thrown together and must learn how to live with each other as the lines between slave and master begin to blur. Can you really tell the difference between duty and devtion?

Tags: smut, fluff and smut, angst, rough sex, bdsm, abandonment, neglect, physical abuse, love stories, shower sex, mutual masturbation, dom/sub undertones, oral sex, shameless smut, praise kink, bondage, biting, slow burn, spanking, orgasm control, orgasm delay/denial, cock warming, master/slave, vaginal fingering, deep throating, breast worship, pussy spanking, ball play, public creampie, edging, anal sex, foot jobs, handcuffs, cock bondage, panties in mouth, aftercare, jealous din djarin, hurt/comfort, overstimulation, strong female characters, hurt no comfort, porn with plot, sexual tension, porn with feelings, canon typical violence, slow romance, fluff and angst, anxiety, manhandling, pov second person, vaginal sex, nipple play, dirty talk, hair pulling

I Think of You by @prolix-yuy | 107k

Summary: A Mandalorian and a woman spend a night together, neither expecting the other to return. But the galaxy works in mysterious ways and many years later, despite a mission and a Creed and the cruelty of their lives, they find each other again and begin a journey of their own.

Tags: graphic smut, drinking, smoking, dirty talk, The Helmet Stays On, safe PiV sex, drinking, suggestive language, canonical-typical violence. mentions of past sexual experiences, angst and yearning, female masturbation, grinding, descriptions of male and female bodies, illness (not graphic), fingering (f receiving), male masturbation, sexy massage, hand kink, mutual masturbation, fingers in mouths, semi-unprotected PiV sex, descriptions of injuries, blood, and medical-ish procedures, allusions to sexual acts, hurt/comfort

Tied by @radiowallet | 26 chapters

Summary: Dr. Din Djarin is the top cardiothoracic surgeon in his field. His work is meticulous, his judgment unquestionable. And then he get’s a new first assist, who couldn’t give two shits about anyone’s reputation.

Tags: Smut, Cursing, Graphic violence, some questionable power dynamics.

Take Me to Church by @frannyzooey | 31 chapters

Summary: Set in a brothel in the late 1800’s in the Wild West, you’ve only been working there for a month when Din Djarin shows up. A bounty hunter who makes stops into town between jobs, he is known at the inn for his generous appetite and demanding preferences. Asking for you one night, he is pleased to learn you are well suited for him: your sweet nature soothing to his gruff temperament and surprising him with your ability to handle his rougher tastes. Demanding that you be made available to him every time he is in town, neither one of you is ready for where this request leads.

Tags: MFF, oral sex (female/male receiving), vaginal sex, dirty talk, mentions of murder, rope play, mutual masturbation, idk man lots of smut

Losing My Religion by @oonajaeadira | 108k

Summary: A Mandalorian comes looking for you with an assignment from an old friend, sending you on a mission and a union that you both need.

Tags: Smut, canon-typical violence, post-season two canon, reader is force sensitive, alternating point of view, angst, fluff, yearning, mind control, injuries, mourning a lost spouse, alcohol, feelings of betrayal, touch starvation, implied masturbation, kissing, bounty hunter kink, grinding and fingering, Mando'a language

Frankie Morales

Between the Raindrops by Jazzelsaur (AO3) | 148k

Summary: Two lives fall apart, then together. A journey told in parts and pieces. Frankie’s life is coming apart at the seams, when Ellie, a widow facing her own share of struggles, moves in next door. Together they find friendship, healing, and something more.

Tags: Widowed reader, divorced frankie, neighbors to friends to lovers, grief, mourning, angst, masturbation, pining, allusions to sex, eventual smut, slow burn, past drug use, alcohol, infertility, miscarriage mention, ptsd, handjobs, oral sex, smut, food, strained friendships, healing, allusions to verbal abuse, angst with a happy ending, idiots in lovedivorced!Frankie, widow!OC/reader, no one has kids, slow burn with great spicy scenes, smut! with plot

Sex Worker!Frankie AU by @prolix-yuy | 21 chapters

Summary: You’d never thought you’d be sitting on a hotel room bed, phone to your ear as you waited for someone on the other end to pick up. After a messy divorce you wanted something to ease the pain of loneliness. That something just happens to be the most gorgeous man you’ve ever seen, even if you had to pay for him.

Tags: Sex Worker!Frankie, implied other Triple Frontier Boys!Sex Workers, watch me make up shit about sex work, descriptions of male and female bodies, oral sex (F receiving), like super descriptive oral (there might be over 2500 words dedicated to Frankie’s talents), female masturbation, fingering (f receiving), safe PiV sex, a touch of Feral Frankie, one ass slap, fingers in mouths, some angst and feelings sprinkled in there for flavor.

Frankie Morales Box Set by @frannyzooey | 20 chapters

Summary: A series of one shots in which Frankie Morales shows you just how much he likes movie night.

Tags: oral, PIV, cum eating, hand job, cockwarming, mutual masturbation, dirty talk, thigh riding, dry humping, lots of other shit

Javier Peña

Lie to Me by @iamskyereads | 151.8k

Summary: A recent transfer to the DEA from the FBI makes you a target of hazing from your co-workers. Choosing to forget your bad first day at a bar puts you on a path towards meeting a new acquaintance. An expert on deception and psychological profiling, you are adept at catching liars. What happens when an increasingly stressful work environment begins to test the limits of your personal life and the one man at the center of it all, Javier Peña? Afterall, everybody lies about something. But how many are you keeping from yourself?

Tags: An AU of Season 3 of Narcos.Language, Alcohol/Drinking, Smoking, POV Switches, assholery, office pranks/hazing, hatin on the FBI and the DEA too, but we all hate on the CIA the most, Praise Kink, Dirty Talk, thigh grinding, PIV sex, soft Javi, Pining, Sexual Frustration, Use of A Sex Toy, Edging, Oral Sex, Canon-Typical Violence, Guns, police raids, Parallel plots to the show, Smut, sloppy blowjobs, Shower Sex, Social Anxiety, Nightmares, Rough Sex, spitting, Semi-Public Sex, Office Sex, Love in an Elevator, death of background characters, kidnapping of background characters, Shootouts, Masturbation, Breeding Kink, discussions of fertility, kink negotiations, Spanking, Brat behavior, Mild D/s vibes, Creampie, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sex in a Church, Unprotected Sex, TacVest!Javi, Orgasm Denial, Angst with a Happy Ending, Period-Typical Sexism, Hospital, scar, accident of background characters, historical classism/sexism/racism, Grief/Mourning, Body Insecurities, Cockwarming, threats of kidnapping reader, light teasing, Flirting

Learning to Live by @wheresarizona | 382k

Summary: While grocery shopping, you happen across a handsome man confused by some produce. Coming to his aid leads to an invitation for drinks, and next thing you know, you’re falling head over heels for Javier Peña—a good man who has trouble believing he is. Sparks fly when you meet and ignite an insatiable need that you both try to fight for the sake of taking things slow; Javi determined to do things right by you. The problem is, the two of you only have so much self-control.

Tags: Post-Colombia and Narcos S3, Story Starts in June 1998.POV Alternating, Soft Javier Peña, Meet-Cute, First Dates, Javier Peña Needs a Hug, Whirlwind Romance, Javier Getting the Love and Happiness He Deserves, Javier Is Stubborn At First, Javier Peña in Love, Javier Being a Consent King, Multiple Orgasms, Vaginal Fingering, Dirty Talk, Praise Kink, Hand Jobs, Come Eating, Phone Sex, Mutual Masturbation, Vaginal Sex, Creampie, Cunnilingus, Blow Jobs, Edgeplay, Body Worship, Shower Sex, Biting Javis Butt, Deepthroating, Biting, Javier Coming So Hard His Soul Leaves His Body, Spanking, Car Sex, Dry Humping, Public Thigh Riding, Face-Sitting, Dirty Dancing, Post-Sex Smoking, Aftercare, Feelings, Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Slow Dancing, Protective Javier Peña, Jealous Javier Peña, Getting Tipsy With Javier, Javier In Grey Sweatpants, Alcohol, Small Towns, Food, Road Trips, Post-Canon, Face-Fucking, Breeding, Rimming, Anal Play, Romantic Comedy, Cockwarming, Grief/Mourning, past relationship trauma, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Horseback Riding, Love Confessions, Miscommunication, Arguing, Angst with a Happy Ending, Period-Typical Sexism, Canon Typical Drug Talk, Nude Photos, Overstimulation, Dysfunctional Family

Just Dumb Enough to Try by @whatsnewalycat | 108k

Summary: In 1993, you met Javier Peña in San Antonio. You made an emotional and physical connection with him. Now it’s 1998 and you’re starting a new chapter of life in Laredo with your fiancé. And who else walks back into the picture, but the man who left you high and dry five years ago.

Tags: alcohol use, Binge Drinking, Swearing, Recreational Drug Use, Cigarettes, Voyeurism, Smut, Bisexual main character, Touch-Starved, Female Masturbation, Vaginal Sex, Unprotected Sex, Dirty Talk, Teasing, Flirting, Mutual Pining, Cheating, Infidelity, Sexual Tension, Attempt at Humor, Soft Javier Peña, Movie Nerd Shit, use of daddy in a sexual context, Vulnerable Javier Peña, Angst and Feels, Family Issues, Mostly Post Season 3, Existential Crisis, Banter, Mental Health Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, friends to lovers to friends to lovers, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fluff and Humor, Oral Sex, Slow Burn, No beta idk I just got here, Fluff and Smut, Not Canon Compliant, Impact Play, Pain Kink, Domestic Violence, Praise Kink, Unplanned Pregnancy, Breeding Kink, Blood and Violence, Mild Gore, Kidnapping

Joel Miller

Feelings on Fire by @joelscruff | 110k

Summary: Back from school for the summer and staying with your devout Catholic parents, you ask Joel Miller to teach you guitar as an act of rebellion. Turns out, there's a lot more that he wants to teach you too...

Tags: Smut, age gap (reader is in her 20s, Joel is in his mid 50s), inexperienced/virgin reader, loss of virginity, corruption, mentions of religion/Catholicism, praise kink, pet names (babygirl, sweetheart, darling), dirty talk, masturbation, unprotected penetrative vaginal sex, creampies, cumplay, oral sex (female and male receiving), exhibitionism, size kink

Lavender by @justagalwhowrites | 253k

Summary: You're a college student in Austin, Texas, who gets a summer job nannying Sarah Miller. It's not long before her dad sees you as more than a babysitter - or more than a friend. But life - and an apocalypse - have other plans.

Tags: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Pre-Canon, Friends to Lovers, Protective Joel, Parent Joel, Joel is Bad at Feelings, Soft Joel, Fluff and Smut, Fluff, Angst, Smut, Vaginal Sex, Oral Sex, Loss of Virginity, Miscarriage, Sexual Coercion

Closer by @beardedjoel | 193k

Summary: you are staying with your parents, helping them move into their new house in austin. what happens when joel miller, the attractive neighbor you've been eyeing obsessively starts to show you some much wanted attention?

Tags: smut, age difference (joel is 42 and reader is 25), porn with some plot, inexperienced reader, soft!dom joel, boyfriend! joel, possessive! joel, mutual masturbation, rough sex, spanking, creampie, unprotected piv, oral (m + f receiving), dirty talk, overstimulation kink, praise kink, so many pet names it’s not even funny, consensual somnophilia, cockwarming

Yearling by @justagalwhowrites | 186k (as of ch 27)

Summary: After years of surviving in the wilds of Wyoming after the cordyceps outbreak, you find yourself in Jackson. It's a town filled with friendly faces and the kind of world you hardly remember, let alone can connect with or understand. But one man - Joel Miller, another loner, like you - makes you think that trying to find your place in society again might be worth it.

Tags: Slow Burn, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Joel, Parent Joel, Angst, Soft Joel, Smut, Eventual Smut, Eventual Romance, Past Sexual Abuse, Friends to Lovers

Hot and Heavy by @tieronecrush | 130k

Summary: Over the course of three summers, Joel Miller has become woven into the fabric of your life. You nanny his daughter, sneaking around in an illicit love affair. You keep coming home, and he keeps coming back to you. The last summer, you're home with no plans of leaving—and Joel seeks you out again. What chances do you have?

Tags: Neighbor!Joel, age gap, canon-divergence, no outbreak, alcohol consumption, mentions of food, pet names (sweetheart), familial and self pressure, reader is in college, nanny!reader, smut

Dave York

Notes on Tutoring by @honestly-shite | 189.9k

Summary: Mr. York becomes your new classical guitar tutor in your final year at music college. A dark, mysterious man, you struggle to get a read on him but that doesn’t stop you from finding many ways to push his buttons.

Tags: Smut, alternate universe, music college, age gap, teacher/student relationship, slow burn, PiV sex, power dynamics, angst, pining, alcohol and drinking

Dieter Bravo

Recovery Road by @chronically-ghosted | 108k

Summary: Dieter Bravo is on his last chance. Six months out of a two year stint in rehab, his marriage on the rocks, and his starlight fading, he reunites with an old director friend on a project that might save his career and his personal life in a single go. Enter Natalie Lorraine, his new enigmatic co-star. Together, they go on to lead a film that comes to define a generation – and are both mysteriously absent the night the film receives an Oscar for Best Picture. Their reasons for missing such a landmark event are their own.

Tags: Smut, age gap (Dieter is 35, reader is 22), drug usage, alcohol, smoking, infidelity, discussions of addiction and withdrawal, toxic relationships, masturbation, pining, angst, anxiety and anxiety attacks, mental illness, bad coping mechanisms, named reader, descriptions of reader's hair, bi!Dieter

Psychomanteum by @whatsnewalycat | 132.7k

Summary: You’ve recently taken on the customer-facing responsibilities of the small-scale cannabis bakery you and your late husband ran out of your apartment, which introduces you to occasional customer, Dieter Bravo. A friendship is sparked when you realize you have something in common: you’ve both died. What Dieter doesn’t tell you about his near-death experience, though, is that it foretold his life with you.

Tags: Smut (including - alternating power dynamics, consensual unprotected sex, penetrative vaginal sex, oral sex, anal sex), gried, alternating point of view, physical descriptions of OFC (including - tattoos, scars, being lifted by Dieter), drug use (including - smoking cannabis and consuming edibles, dropping acid, drinking alcohol, cocaine and morphine use), substance abuse, addiction, fame & paparazzi, canon divergent, suicidal thoughts and planning, divorce, near-death experiences, Bi4Bi romance, supernatural elements, ghosts and psychomanteums, spirituality, drag performance, long-distance relationship, friends to lovers dynamic, OFC is infertile, familial and relationship trauma - please refer to chapters for all warnings.

For the Love of Horror by @coulsons-fullmetal-cellist | 80 chapters

Summary: Dieter meets and falls in love with someone who absolutely loves horror films. The problem is, he's a big scaredy cat!

Tags: loose fit series, series of one shots and drabbles, tags on each chapter

Oberyn Martell

In Name Only by @forever-rogue | 21 chapters

Summary: Reader, the only daughter of late Lord and Lady Beesbury, is sent off to be married to Prince Oberyn Martell. After having been parted from her first love by her horrid mother, she refuses to marry a man she does not know or love and be pushed into a life of misery. But after threat of being cut off from everything she knew and loved, she finds herself leaving her home in Honeyholt and arriving in Sunspear, married to the Prince. Being the charming and kind Prince he is, Oberyn promises her that it does not have to be a true marriage, it can be a marriage in name only. Little does the newly anointed Lady Martell know, that being married to the Prince is so much more than she bargained for.

Tags: Smut, language, fluff, kissing, period-typical misogyny, angst, sensual touching, mentions of violence and injury, discussions of pregnancy, mentions of death

Jack "Whiskey" Daniels

Down the Rabbit-Hole by @absurdthirst, @wardenparker | 208k

Summary: When Jack accidentally shoots a civilian on a mission he takes on not only the guilt of the man’s death, but inherits his soulmate as well. To you, it’s a dream job with more perks than you can imagine - but for Jack it’s a nightmarish complication. Even more so when he starts to develop feelings.

Tags: mentions of deceased spouse, a lot of food and alcohol consumption, family recipes, age gap, cursing, Canon typical violence, Death, gun use, angst, Jack has a temper and Tequila has a dumb first name, Making Out, a bit of groping, heavy flirting, sexy shower time, a whole truck load of anger, Fisticuffs, a bunch of angry people being upset with each other, Kidnapping, Torture, burning victim with cigarettes, Broken Bones, a whole lot of gun pointing and talk about murder, medicine by injection, oral sex (f and m receiving), Outdoor Sex, Public Sex, Unprotected Sex, Vaginal Sex, Cream Pie, Cum Play, Anxiety, Accidental Hurt, panic attack (symptoms based on my own personal experiences), intrusive/racing thoughts, physical symptoms of anxiety, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Guilt, Possible Unwanted Pregnancy, Lies, Nausea/Illness, Talk of Abortion, canon typical injuries, Family Planning, Mentions of Sex Toys, Lingerie, Spanking, rough sex, Flirty and somewhat explicit banter, Pregnancy, Discussion of symptoms, Mood Swings, cemetery/deceased loved ones, speaking to deceased loved ones

Pedro Across The Street (Calls)

Good. Things. Take. Time. by @oonajaeadira | 22 chapters

Summary: PATS is a massage therapist with special services. Or so he claims. He gives you a three-hour session you’re both going to enjoy.

Tags: Explicit marathon wall to wall smut, masseuse!PATS, sex worker!PATS.

Din Djarin x Joel Miller

Cosmic Oddities by fromthewhales (AO3) | 106k

Summary: Turning a clan of two into a clan of four and asking the very important, albeit unhinged question: What if space dad and apocalypse dad were Weird About Each Other?

The data was leaning in favor of the former. Which is why you’ve been so very careful not to reveal your feelings under any circumstances. Witches have gaped about your sheer willpower. Sam’s made passing comments about never seeing someone who could fight demonic possession so well. Everyone around you seems to think you’re some kind of mind Titan, able to simply focus and drive off any monster or force that tries to take you over.

They don’t know that there’s always on common factor. One thing that they try to force you to reveal, that makes you pry your mind back from their bare hands.

When you got possessed by a demon, Sam and Dean had you tied to a chair. You’d still been able to see through your own eyes. Still been able to think, even if the demon had been using your internal monologue as a broadcast public radio, sharing every thought you had the mistake of thinking.

“Aw.” She’d used your mouth, you voice, and it had sounded twisted in your brain. “She’s worried about you two. Isn’t that adorable.”

Sam had frowned, shooting Dean a weary look. “Is there something we need to be worried about? Or-“ He’d said your name gently. “If you’re worried we can’t take this demon, we can.”

“She batting out of her league.” Dean had muttered, glaring down at the knife in his hands. “We’ve tangoed with the bosses and come out on top, sweetheart. No one needs to be worried but the bitch inside you.”

Whatever parts of your heart were still yours—most of it, as the demon had been able to sink her claws into everything but the organ that only played one, embarrassingly loud song—had fluttered at his words. He hadn’t been looking at you since they realized you were possessed. Sam had been doing all the talking, asking questions and trying to figure out what the demon wanted, how long she’d been in your brain. Dean had just sat on the edge of the mattress, fists curled on his knees, jaw clenched so tight you were worried about his teeth. If you were in control of yourself you would’ve told him to stop doing that. It made his headaches worse, and you bought him gum specifically so he could chew on something when he got pissed.

He would’ve smile to himself, shaking his head, and given you the look that always made your knees wobble. The one that had a silent affection behind it, that came with his hand grazing your lower back and teasing about how bossy you were.

You’d think I was dying, way you talk about my health.

I’m trying to avoid you dying, Dean-

Why? Happens to everyone eventually, and I’m further down the line than I thought I’d be-

You’re not a dinosaur. Stop talking like I’m putting you in a home, I just told you to drink some water.

If I drink some water, are you gonna stop circling me like a freakin’ shark?

I am not circling you like a shark-

Yeah, you are. You wanna take a bite outta me, sweetheart, I can see it.

You’d always blink at him, your heart in your ears and your jaw slack. He’d grin, drink his water slowly and dramatically, then boop the bottle on your nose and walk away. When you’d tell him to do something later, he’d roll his eyes and give you that look again.

That was how they figured out you were possessed. The demon had asked Dean to grab the artifact you’d been investigating, and when he’d whined that he wanted to go get pie, she’d smiled and said that was fine, as long as Dean told her where the artifact was first.

You would’ve told Dean that he could have his pie after he grabbed the artifact. You would’ve stood in front of him with your arms crossed and glared until he got up with a groan and let you drag him exactly where you needed him to be. That’s what you and Dean did. He pretended to be annoyed by it, but you wouldn’t ask anything of him unless you really needed it. You got him the pie after, and he teased you about being wound up and needing to breathe for a second. He’d feed you some of his pie like you were a baby, and you’d pretend to bite his fingers off.

But the demon had just bent for him. Dean had stared at her. And you’d know he’d seen it. Right through you, and to the ugly thing inside your body.

Ugly in a different way that you were. The demon was just cruel, but you were selfish. 

Dean had told you not to go out alone, but you loved him and he’d been sitting so close. The love inside you had been threatening to pour out of you like a flood, and you’d needed to be anywhere but near him. The demon had found you while you were at the convenience store, buying Dean jerky. You’d been too slow, and now you were a burden to him and Sam again. Dean had been forced to knock you out to tie up the demon, and Sam had to burn you with holy water. You could feel it, the burn and blistering of you skin. You’d never tell them that, because the guilt would eat them alive.

You’d never tell Dean. He was already angry with you for going out as it was. You’re already more trouble than you’re worth, most of the time. Your worry hadn’t been for you.

It’s for him. That this was going to be too much for him to deal with, having to hurt another person he cared about.

The demon had plucked that thought from your head, and curved your lips into a smirk.

“Oh, she’s not worried about herself, Deanie.” It had drawled. “I know you see her as a woman of steel, but our lovely girl is just so sweet on the insides here. It’s like swimming through marshmallows. She’s just so perfectly worried about how this is going to effect you. It’s all she can think about, the pathetic little slut.”

Dean’s eyes had narrowed. “Don’t fuckin’ talk about her like that-“

“I’ll talk about her however I want.” The demon had purred. “She’s my meat toy. But if you want to share with me, Winchester, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind both of us inside of her. She-“

The demon had cut herself off. Dean had shot to his feet, looking ready to throw a punch. Sam had blocked him with an arm, and your body had started to convulse. The demon sputtering and choking on nothing as Dean shouted your name. Sam had let him get to you when it became clear this wasn’t the demon making a play, but you hadn’t needed the help.

She’d made her mistake already. You’d been able to feel her next words, building on your own tongue. She’d been sneering in your brain about how Dean would hate you after she revealed the truth, and you’d grabbed her by the throat.

You’d pushed her out of your body, no exorcism required. Sam and Dean had stared at you in awe for about a month after. Sam had even pulled you aside and lowly asked how you did it. You’d told him you had no idea.

It would’ve been insane, to say well, Samuel. It was the power of my love for your brother.  Don’t tell him, or I’ll fucking kill you.

You would’ve been serious about that threat, too. You never wanted Dean to know. If Sam had ever found out and told him, there would’ve been a double murder suicide.

Which is why you don’t know what to do now.

Because Dean kissed you, and the world didn’t end.

Paradise didn’t come. Hell didn’t split through the Earth, and you didn’t have to go into hiding in Romania—your backup plan if Dean had ever found out and it wasn’t Sam’s fault.

The Earth had just kept spinning. Dean had gotten up the next morning and acted like nothing happened at all. Grumbling about his hangover and running a hand through his mussed hair. The same hand that had held the back of your neck last night, certain and possessive in his grip. Dean licked his lips, and you’d mirrored the motion, only able to think of that same tongue pressing into your mouth. ‘

He’d kissed you like he knew what he wanted. He’d tasted like whiskey and had a glazed expression—as if he was looking at the world through glass—but he’d kissed you. He’d lifted you off the ground with the force of it. He’d looked at you with blown out eyes, and been half-hard in his jeans, and begged you to come back to his room, and-

“You alright?” Dean asks, and you blink at him.

“Me?”

“Yeah, you.” His lips twitch. “You look like you spent the night getting run over by a truck.”

You frown, and Dean pauses.

“In a good way.”

“I look like I got run over by a truck in a good way?”

“Uh- Yeah?” He smiles, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, I’m not sayin’ you look bad. You’re just all spacey and tired, and-“

He waves a hand at you sheepishly, and normally you’d keep pushing him for how exactly you could be run over by a truck in a good way.

But today, you can only look at his dumb, handsome face and think about how his stubble brushed over your skin. How your noses bumped, how he’d help you to his chest like you were a doll and he was a worried child that needed you.

“I didn’t sleep well last night.” You mutter, and Dean chuckles.

“Me neither.”

“You got drunk.” You say, flat and low. “You passed out.”

“Yeah, but I had some dreams, and-“ He cuts himself off, eyes widening and grip on his mug slipping. He catches it with a curse, and looks at you like he’s seeing a ghost.

You raise your brow, not letting any emotion onto your face. Dean clears his throat, eyes dropping for the briefest second to your lips.

“Hey, uh-“ He runs a hand through his hair, shifting nervously on his feet. “If I did anything stupid while I was wasted, you’d tell me. Right?”

And maybe you should tell him. But he looks so worried, and you know, deep down.

He doesn’t really remember.  

“Yeah.” You breathe, offering him a tiny smile. “I would.”

Dean’s silent. He studies you for a second, then shakes his head with a laugh. “Good. ‘Cause I get some, uh- Some crazy dreams.”

You pretend to laugh, but it echoes in the hollow of your chest until you feel sick. You have to excuse yourself to take a shower. To help you wake up, is what you tell Dean.

Really, you just sit on the floor and cry, letting your tears wash down the drain with the water. He doesn’t remember. He kissed you, and he’s chalking it up to a crazy dream.

You have to get over him. It’s a punch in your gut, knocking wind and snot out of you, but it’s what you needed. Dean’s never going to see you like that. He’s older, he’s a hero, he could have anyone he wanted and he’s not going to chose the bossy girl who watches cartoons with him and makes him do bar trivia with her, because he’s better than he thinks he is. He’ll find someone cooler and older. Someone who likes cars as much as he does, who can actually help him with the Impala instead of just sitting on the bench in the garage and bothering him. Someone who can cook as well as he does, and doesn’t make him try all the crazy soda flavors she sees.

Someone just as resolved and perfect as he is.

Not you.

You pick yourself up, and try to set a goal. Get over Dean.

The asshole doesn’t make it easy.

He makes it impossible.

“I’m gonna work on Baby this afternoon.” He says, and you hum. You’re curled up on the couch with your laptop, and he’s been leaning over your shoulder for the past hour, watching whatever you put on the screen. You don’t understand why. He’s got his own TV right in front of him, and he has to put his arm around your shoulders to comfortably be so close.

His fingers keep brushing the bare skin of your collarbone. His warmth is wrapped around you like a blanket, and it’s all impossible to deal with.

“I bought those snacks you like.” He adds, and you hum.

“Okay.”

“They’re gonna be with me. In the garage.”

 “I’ll come get them later.”

Dean’s face twitches. You look over to find him staring at you, nostrils flaring and nose slightly wrinkled.

“I got ice cream.” He mutters, gaze locked onto yours. “’S gonna melt.”

“Put it in the freezer.” You manage to whisper, and he shakes his head.

“Too far. Gotta focus on work.”

“I’m going to distract you from work-“

“That’s different.” He shrugs, and suddenly you’re being pulled to your feet.

“Dean-“

“C’mon.” He moves you in front of  him, and all but herds you out of the Dean Cave. “I’ll even let you pick the music, alright?”

You can’t argue with him. He’s too cute, and always has a command over your body you’ve never been able to fight off. He doesn’t even know that if he asked you to walk over hot coals, you’d do it to reach his side. If he wanted to get away you’d drop everything and go with him. If he needed you to bring him the moon, you’d learn to grow taller enough to grab it in your hands, and shred yourself back down to stay at his side.

There’s no way you can get over him while being his friend. Being his friend alone is a trial that’s slowly wearing you down. Enough that soon, you think, you’ll just be crawling on your hands to lay at his feet. It’s all you’re going to be able to muster. All you’re going to want to do.

You need to get away from him.

You can’t get away from him. Because if he asks you to do something with him—which he always does—there’s no way you’re going to be able to say no.

Which leaves one solution.

Avoid Dean.

Avoid him like he’s the plague.

You wake up in the morning, and touch your lips. Touch them like you can push the feeling of his kiss further into them. Like it’s a sugar that you could gather on your fingers and taste, a tattoo you’re trying to make sure is permanent. You do it every morning now, because it’s the last thing of Dean you’re allowing yourself to have.

If you’re careful, you don’t see him through the day. You’re up before he is, you find a corner of the bunker to hide in, you go out, you stay on the move like you’re prey and Dean’s on a hunt. When you see Sam, he gives you an odd look. If you’re sloppy, and end up in the same room as Dean, you flee before he can say something. If he says something you’re going to crash right back into him. He’s gravity. And you don’t have the strength to pull away twice.

But it’s not working.

You haven’t been alone with Dean for a week, and you just miss him. You feel like you’re trying to carve out a vital artery from your chest. It just hurts. It just makes your love spill all over you, now that there’s nowhere for it to go. You watch something on your computer and hug yourself, because your body seems to think it’s missing a limb without Dean wrapped around you. You sneak out in the middle of the night to get food, and end up just staring at the pie and jerky and beer until you’re sick. You’ve started to hole up in your room with ice cream as if you’re going through a breakup.

It’s pathetic. You look in the mirror and see a husk, with tear stained cheeks and sunken features. You’re wearing one of his fucking shirts, but your skin burns every time you think about taking it off. You’d think you were cursed, if you didn’t know this was just the feeling of love dying.

Not dying.

You’re not strong enough to kill it.

This is the feeling of love being tortured.

Because you’re stupid and tired, you look up how to get over a crush. The internet says to list out all his faults, and logically you know Dean has those, but you can’t remember any right now. His teasing always makes you flush and giggle, his stupid jokes make everything feel lighter, you know he gets angry because he cares. You even miss the loud, sloppy way he chews. You’d always been able to reach over the table and wipe sauce from his cheek, and he’d smile at you after, and you miss his smile. You’d do anything to see it right now.

You scroll to the next step. Think about it logically. If they’d even be a good match. You skip that one. Dean’s always been the one thing you don’t bother to think about logically. Something about him makes all the common sense in your head go down the drain. Which is the same issue the next step—ask yourself why you have a crush on them—fails as well. Of course you have a crush on Dean. You could list out every reason, but they’d all just circle back to he’s Dean. And everything that he is demands that you love him.

Force yourself to move on, is the final step. Go out with someone else. Even if they’re not your soulmate, it will help you realize there are plenty of other fish in the sea.

There are many other fish. The world is filled with men.

That’s part of the problem.

None of them are Dean Winchester.

But this is the most actionable step. The only one you can try to take, even if it doesn’t work. So you get cleaned up, put on a nice dress, and do your makeup a little bit like a slut. The goal of this is to get laid, through, and it’s not like anyone you know is going to see-

“Where the hell are you going?”

You freeze, squeezing your eyes shut. He’s up. Why the fuck is he up. “Nowhere?”

“You’re going nowhere.” Dean drawls. “At eleven. Dressed like… That.”

“Mhm.” You turn slowly, trying to offer a winning smile.

He doesn’t look amused.

You haven’t seen him in person in a month. He kind of looks… awful.

He’s still handsome. You don’t think he’s capable of being anything else but amazing and desirable. But his hair is longer than he usually lets it grow, and there are heavy bags under his eyes. His shoulders are hunched, there’s a stain on his flannel, and when he rubs his jaw you can see grease stains on his hands.   

“Were you in the garage?” You blurt, and he grunts.

“Maybe.”

“But-“ His gaze is lidded, his features pale in a way that only happens when he’s awake for too long. “Have you slept?”

His brow furrows. “Napped.”

“For how long.”

“Long enough.”

“That’s not an answer-“

“Where are you going.” He raises his voice over yours, and you swallow.

“Out.”

“Out where.”

You look down at your heels, fidgeting with the folds of your dress. “To a bar.”

Dean doesn’t respond. You can’t bring yourself to look at him, but you think you might be leaning forward. This is exactly what you wanted to avoid. You haven’t even been able to build up a flimsy wall against your feelings, and now they’re all crashing through you like an asteroid, slamming through your world.

He’s right there, and if you took a step forward you’d be able to touch him. Wipe the grease off his hands, pull off the flannel and order him to change into something clean. He needs a haircut, but you kind of like it longer. You could run your fingers through it, like this. Soothe the spots where it’s sticking out, help him wash it if he’d let you.

But you don’t think he will.

Because when you look up under your lashes, he’s staring at you with a pained, exhausted expression that makes you want to cry.

“You goin’ to meet someone?” He finally says, and you shake your head.

“N- No.”

“We got drinks here-“

“I know.”

He grunts. “It’s not safe for you to be out by yourself.”

“I’m bringing pepper spray.” You mumble. “And my gun.”

Dean’s silent for a long moment, and you think he’s going to give up and walk away. Everything will be easier, if he just leaves for you. It will splatter your heart all over the floor, but at least you won’t have the weight of holding onto it anymore. At least it won’t churn like something rotten, when a stranger who isn’t Dean lays his hands all over you.

But Dean doesn’t leave.

He takes a step forward, and suddenly the air is so hot it’s hard to breathe.

“I’m goin’ with you.”

Your head shoots up, eyes wide. “Dean-“

“You said you’re not meetin’ anyone.” He challenges, glaring down at you. “I need a drink. You come with me, or you don’t go at all.”

A scoff slips from your lips. “And how the fuck would you stop me-“

“I’d toss you over my shoulder and carry you back to your room.”

Oh.

He says it so casually. His voice a deep rumble as he stares at you. An ache demands attention between your thighs, and your cheeks burn as you laugh nervously, looking to the side.

Dean doesn’t even crack a grin.

So there’s nothing you can do, but let him walk with you to the car. You try to get in the backseat, but Dean snaps his fingers and points at shotgun with a scowl.

“I’m not a fuckin’ taxi. You sit up here, or we walk.”

You flush, and silently slide into the front bench. Dean drops behind the wheel, his gaze fixed firmly ahead as he starts the engine. You forgot how dangerous being close to him is. He’d grabbed his coat on the way out, tossing his dirty flannel to the side. He smells like leather and pine tree, and even across the bench you can feel the heat radiating from his body. He rolls up his sleeves, and you want to nuzzle close to him and have him put you in a headlock. His hand runs over his inner thigh, and you press your own together.

You’re staring at him. You can’t help it.

Dean must feel it, because he shoots you a look from the corner of his eye. You look away, and hear him let out a heavy breath.

And the game begins. Dean pulls out of the garage, and you’re both perfectly silent, daring the other to break first. You stare out the window, stealing glances whenever you think you can get away with it. Sometimes Dean catches your eye, and you curl further into yourself, twisting away. Once, Dean opens his mouth. He closes it just as fast.

You’ve been driving for thirty minutes, when you realize he’s not taking you to a bar. You’ve passed three bars, and he didn’t even slow down to check them out. You grab all the thin courage you posses, rooted deep in your stomach and sticky with nerves, and drag it to the surface.

“Dean, where are we-“

“You’ve been ignoring me.” He says, blatant and flat. “Past month. Don’t think I haven’t fuckin’ noticed.”

You swallow, pulling your knees to your chest. “I- I don’t-“

“Didn’t even say why.” He mutters, tapping his fingers on the wheel. “Thought you were sick at first, but you’ve been talkin’ to Sammy.”

“It’s-“

“And you run outta every room I walk into. Like I got cooties or something.” He’s scowling at the road, and you feel like the smallest thing in the world. “Didn’t even bother to tell me why. Just… Fuckin’ vanished.”

There’s a lump in your throat, and unearned tears stinging at your eyes. He sounds broken, and it’s your fault. You and your stupid, useless love for him. “Dean, it’s not like that-“

“So what’s it like, huh?” His words are harsh. You flinch back. “You start acting like I’m the goddamn devil and I’m supposed to take your word that it’s just not like that? There ain’t anything for it to be like, sweetheart-“

“No, I- I just-“ You lean forward, then curl back. You’d wanted to grab him. You don’t think you’re allowed. “I just needed- I needed-“

“Space?” He spits the word like it’s poison. “Go on. Tell me you just needed space from me.”

“Dean-“

“The hell did I do to you?” He sneers. “I know I ain’t perfect, but I- I thought you- I was so fuckin’ careful, and you promised you’d tell me if I did something stupid.”

You frown, not fully understanding what he means. “Dean, you- You didn’t do anything-“

“Don’t bullshit me!” He shouts, and you don’t think you can breathe anymore. “You promised me, you said you’d tell me, and the goddamn least you coulda done was tell me what the fuck I did-“

“Please- Please stop yelling.” You whisper, not even sure if he’s going to hear you.

But he does.

Dean cuts himself off with that clench of his jaw, and pulls over to the side of the road. You hug yourself tight, trying to shrink back into the seats. This is your fault. He’s angry because of you, and you stupidity. You’re barely a schoolgirl with a crush, and you let it hurt him, and there’s no possible world where he’d ever want you now.

You hide your face in your knees. Tears burn on your cheeks, and when you try to take a deep breath, it’s ragged and aching.

Dean’s silent. The whole car is silent. He’d turned off the radio, and the only sound hanging in the air is your sniffling. You think about climbing out of the car, but he’d just chase after you. It’s started to rain, and you don’t want him to catch a cold.

You wrap your coat tighter around you. Your dress feels too tight on your skin. Feels wrong. You think you’re going to be sick. When you risk a look at Dean, he’s still holding the wheel with white knuckles. Staring at you with a pained expression, eyes even heavier than before.

He leans forward like he’s going to reach for you. Your breath hitches. He pulls back.

For a second, you just watch each other. You wipe your cheeks with your palm, and it feels like a raw, open wound.

Dean opens his mouth. Closes it, and looks back to the road like he’s searching for something.

“I’m- I didn’t mean to yell.” He mutters, voice hoarse. “I just- I’m sorry.”

You nod—you didn’t blame him  in the first place—but when he looks to you for a response, you can’t find one. Everything is lodged in your throat, behind a quiet confession you’ve worked far too hard to shove down.

“I’ll fix it.” Dean rasps, and you blink.

“What?”

“Whatever I did.” He’s staring at you, his voice cracking. “Whatever pissed you off or- Or hurt you. I’ll work on it, alright? You don’t have to do anything, I’ll fix me, and then you can stay.”

“I- I can stay?”

He nods, squeezing his eyes shut. As if the words hurt to stay. “If you can’t, I get it. I do. But you gotta give me a chance to set it right, before you give up. Just one chance, and if I screw it up a second time you can run off, but- One shot, it’s all I need. Don’t- Don’t leave.” His voice cracks, eyes shining in the dark. “Please.”

You stare at him, mouth hanging open. He looks broken. Lone tears stain his cheeks, and he’s not even wiping them away. When you shake your head—just trying to make sense of what he said—he cowers away like a kicked dog, and you split down the middle.

“I wasn’t going to leave, Dean.” Horror leaks through your voice. You couldn’t leave him if you tried. “I’d never leave you.”

He laughs dryly. “Yeah, like I didn’t just fuckin’ catch you-“

“I was going to the bar.”

“Without telling anyone?”

“No, because I knew you’d try to do this!” You wave around you, and Dean’s throat bobs. “No, I didn’t mean-“

“You didn’t wanna see me.” He mutters, looking back to the wheel. “’S alright. I get it.”

He doesn’t. He really doesn’t. And you can see him trying to drag himself back together, still refusing to wipe his tears and breathing through his nose. He’s just sitting there, hollow and angry, and he doesn’t understand.

“You kissed me.”

You say it without thinking, soft and weak. Dean goes rigid. He looks at you with bloodless, horrified features. You wrap your hand around your own throat, trying to hold yourself in one piece.

He shakes his head. You’re going to throw up.

“No, I- I’d remember that-“

“You were drunk.” You breathe. “I- I picked you up from the bar. And you kissed me.”

Dean looks like someone punched him in the face. He’s pallid, looking around the car like there’s a way out, fisting and unfisting his hands.

“That’s- That’s why you’ve been avoiding me.” He rasps, and you nod, fixing your gaze on his chest.

If you have to watch his face while he rejects you, there’s a chance you’ll just die.

Dean says your name, slow and broken, and you bite the inside of your cheek. Bracing for the knife about to be driven into your chest.

“I’m so fuckin’ sorry.”

That makes you look up. And it’s not rejection you find in Dean’s eyes.

It’s guilt.

“I shouldn’t have kissed you, and- Being drunk’s no damn excuse.”

“Dean-“

“If you want nothing to do with me, I- I understand.” He’s too lost in himself to hear you. “Hell, I’ll move out so you can stick with Sammy. You won’t have to deal with me anymore, you’re- It’s not your fault-“

“Dean-“

“I shouldn’t have forced you on that, my own- My own shit is mine to deal with, and you never gave me any kinda go and I damn well knew it- I’m so fuckin’ sorry-“

“Dean!” You shout, and he falls silent. Squeezes his jaw shut, gaze mournful and completely shattered.

You’re not entirety sure what’s happening. You say the only thing you can think.

“Stop grinding your teeth.”

Dean blinks, but his jaw loosens. He mutters your name, and you shake your head. You don’t think you can stand another apology.

“I- I’m not mad about you kissing me.” You whisper, and he snorts, empty and humorless.

“It’s not your job to make me feel better about hurting you, sweetheart-“

“You didn’t hurt me.” You snap, and Dean stills completely.

He opens his mouth, but you’re faster. Flushing furiously and too tired to fight the words.

“I- I liked it.” You whisper. “A lot.”

Dean sits a little taller, words low and cautious. “You didn’t tell me in the morning. Why wouldn’t you tell me, if-“

“You were drunk. I- I thought-“ You take a deep breath, face burning with shame. “I thought you didn’t mean it.”

“Ah.” He’s silent for a moment. “But- Why the hell would you avoid me-“

“I kissed you back.”

“Did you mean it?”

His question feels like the barrel of a gun, loaded and pressed to your temple. You nod weakly. Dean lets out a sharp breath, drumming his fingers on the wheel.

“You thought I didn’t mean it.” He finally echoes, and you nod again. “So you just-“

“That hurt.” Tears are falling again. Everything blurring except for Dean. “That’s the part that hurt, Dean, I just- I had to try and move on. And the internet said that’s how you do it.”

“The internet?”

“Yeah.” You mumble, and Dean huffs a low laugh.

“Sweetheart, why the hell would you check the internet for advice-“

“None of my ideas were working.” You hiss. “And I- I didn’t like avoiding you, it felt really bad-“

“You didn’t have to avoid me, you coulda just told me-“

“And you would’ve what, confessed your love and kissed me again-“

“Yeah!” He shouts, throwing his hands in the air. “I would’ve, if you’d just fuckin’ told me!”

Your heart stops, for a full second. You don’t think you heard him right. “What?” You whisper, and Dean sighs.

“I meant it, okay?” He mutters, looking up to the sky. As if he was praying. “Everything I do with you, I mean it.”

“And- And the love-“

“I mean that too.” He gives you a sad, tired smile. “I know I shouldn’t. God knows I tried not to, you’re- You’re young and you got a future and I’m just me-“

“I love you.” You blurt, and Dean’s jaw falls. “I love you just like… you. And-“ You bow your head shyly. He won’t stop staring. “If you- If you feel something too-“

Dean moves before you can think.

One second you’re rambling, trying to figure out how to say it. The next  his lips are pressed against yours, kissing you like he’ll die if he doesn’t. Like you’ll die.

You grab his wrist when he cups your face, he turns you to deepen the kiss, and you’re both moving like you’re trying to breathe the other in. Your nails dig into his skin and he grunts, the sound vibrating against you. You roll onto your knees, moving over him without breaking the kiss, and he grabs you by the waist. Tight enough to bruise. To leave a mark.

It’s just a kiss. A hungry, hot kiss that’s making your head spin. It’s better than anyone else touching you. Better than being fucked, just because it’s Dean.

He picks you up, pulling you into his lap forcing you to straddle. You grab his shoulders for balance, letting out a sharp breath, and Dean chuckles. Sucks your lower lip with a tiny smirk, rubbing your hips as your finger brush the back of his neck. You let out a shuddering breath, sinking fully against his chest. One of his massive hands drags up your spine, callouses and teasing fingers dancing over bare skin and you arch, chasing the fuzzy, addictive sensation of Dean’s hands.

Your core presses against his bulge. He’s hard, twitching inside his jeans. You roll your hips once, unable to stop yourself, and Dean hisses against your lips.

“Careful.” 

You don’t want to be careful. You want to be ruined. You grind down again, kissing him while you move, and he groans.

“Hey- Woah-“ He wraps his arm fully around your waist and pins you down. Forcing the outline of his cock against the thin panties you’d worn to go out.

There’s not a single regret in your head. You can feel him better like this. The thick curve, almost pushed between your pussy lips. Your underwear is bunched up, offering extra pressure, but Dean is holding you down so hard there’s not even space to wiggle. You almost whine, pouting at him under wet, fluttering lashes.

He just stares up at you like a man who’s lived underground his whole life, finally seeing the stars. You drag your nails down his chest, trying to spur him into action, but he just keeps staring. He even laughs under his breath, like something’s fucking funny.

You scowl, but don’t even get to provoke him before he’s rising back up.

Dean brushes hair from your face, and kisses you slowly. Sweetly. A confusing, sharp contrast to how his erection is angled right against your heat. Your body doesn’t seem to know what to do with it, and just settles for going limp with overwhelmed, happily dizzy confusion. Dean chuckles again. If your body could listen to any whims but his right now, you’d punch him in the face.

“Stop laughing.” You manage to grumble, but that just makes him laugh again. “Dean-“

“Sorry.” He grins against your lips, rubbing your hips in soothing circles. “You’re just- You’re unbelievable.”

“You’re unbelievable-“

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever fuckin’ seen.” He mutters, dragging his hand up your side. As if he’s marveling in just the shape of you. “Never thought I’d get to have you like this, and- Look at you.” He draws back, whistling with a smug smirk. “They should let people touch the art, baby. You get even prettier.”

There’s nothing coherent you have to respond to that. Your brain is mostly a confusing garble of Dean and touch and more.

He kisses just under your jaw, and you gasp. Your eyes flutter as your head lolls to the side, and Dean chuckles.

“You-“ You bite back a moan as he sucks on a pulse point. “You’re pretty too.”

“Hm.” He nips at the sensitive skin, before flicking his tongue against the hurt. “Pretty, huh.”

You nod, wrapping your arms around his neck until he’s almost in a headlock. Dean doesn’t seem to mind, moving onto another, somehow more sensitive spot. You try to move against his clothed dick, your pussy starting to throb, but he’s holding you too tight. Dean hums against your skin, and you moan, right in his ear. It makes his cock jump, and you almost cry from the fleeting offer of friction.

“Come- Come on-“ You whine, wiggling uselessly in his arms. “You’re being an asshole- Dean-“

He pushes his lips back over yours, right as he grabs a handful of your ass and squeezes. It loosens his grip, letting your hips freely move against him, but you’re so pent up from making out that you can’t even work out what you want to do. You’re grabbing at his shirt and kissing him with spit and teeth, and he’s barely giving you anything in return.

“Dean- Just-“ You claw at his shirt. “Off, get it off-“

“That’s not a very polite way to ask, sweetheart-“

“Fuck you.” You breathe out, moaning when you get the thickest part of him to drag over your clit. “Take your shirt off, Dean, now-“

 A strong hand wraps around your throat, pulling you back down into a mind numbing kiss. You’re still fucking down onto his crotch, but their angle offers less pressure. You might’ve burst into tears, if it wasn’t for the magnitude of Dean’s attention. His hands all over your body, one fisted in your hair while the other started to map every inch of you he can reach.

“De- Dean-“

“Not polite.” He mutters, kissing you between every word. “Not patient. What am I gonna do with you?”

Your heart stumbles, still a little bit bare from the fight and confused from the gentle way he’s suddenly touching you. No more grabbing or marking. Just soft, possessive but careful fingers, tracing your curves like he’s trying to memorize every inch.

“Can I tell you what I’ve wanted to do?” He rasps in your ear. “Since I first fuckin’ saw you?”

“Yes.” You breath, trying to just feel him. His strength all around you, his voice rolling through your chest.

Dean’s words are deep and rough in your ear, and you cling to every one like gospel.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you since before you even said your name. Wanted to fuck you when you stood in front of me and threatened to shoot if I didn’t back off and leave you be. Decided I’d marry you when you called me a chicken butt ‘cause I told you to stay behind me. Then I thought I was insane, told myself I just needed to get laid. But I got laid. And you wanna know the only thing I could think about, the whole damn time?”

You nod, and Dean pulls back, dropping his brow tight against yours.

“You.” He rasps. “Closed my eyes and saw you under me. Got kicked outta bed for calling your name, felt sick after ‘cause some stupid thing in my head kept telling me I’d betrayed you. Then Sammy came and told me you’d be coming with us, and I knew I was a goner. If it wasn’t such a selfish freakin’ masochist I would’ve told him that I didn’t want you around.”

Your lip wobbles. “You didn’t want me-“

“I wanted you so much.” He grabs the back of your neck, the words a low growl. “Drove me out of my damn mind, how much I wanted you. Thought I’d need to be put down, like one of those dogs that humps every damn thing it sees.”

“You- You never-“

“What? Thought you’d be into something like me?” He laughs, and you frown.

You plant your hands, flat on his chest, and push up a little taller. Demanding he listen to every word you say.

“I’m into you.” You snap, and Dean’s sarcastic smile falters, slipping back into that awe. “Do you think there’s something wrong with me?”

“No.” He answers without thought. “You’re perfect.”

Dean kisses you, slow and deliberate. Everything is suddenly controlled and delicate, like he’s weaving together a song.

You think you’re supposed to be the instrument. You don’t realize, though, until he’s already playing you as if you’re a toy.

Dean’s mouth trails down, leaving wet, open kisses over your neck and collarbone. The beard scrapes and tickles against you. You decide you like it. He’s not allowed to shave later.

You shiver, moving your hands to rest on his stomach. His abdomen flexes under your fingers, and you start to grind back down onto his crotch. When you press further forward, you can get that perfect friction from before. The one you needed so bad you almost screamed. Dean nips at your throat and you pick up your pace.

He grunts, and lifts you up like you weigh nothing. You squirm like animal, even as he handles you well. You’re moved backwards, your knees still knocked apart as Dean’s spreads his own legs. He pushes you back until your elbows are resting on the horn, and heat prickles over your skin when you realize the position he’s put you in.

Your barely clothed pussy, wet and on full display to Dean’s lust-blown expression. He traces over your inner thigh, teasing and teasing until you’re almost thrusting up to meet him.

“Remember what I said about patience?” He drawls, eyes sparkling on yours.

You just pant, making to grab his wrist and move it where you want. But he’s too strong, and you don’t even get a budge.

“I- I’ve been patient-“

 “Nah. Not enough. But,” he lifts up your skirt, exposing you further. “Look at her. Just begging for some attention.”

Dean presses a single knuckle against your pussy, running it up until it hits your clit, and your elbow slips. Baby’s horn startles you, making you almost scramble back over Dean, and he just laughs. Kisses you sweetly while you pant in his ear, even nipping under the lobe as you try to control your heartbeat.

“Fuck- Fuck-“ Your eyes roll back as you realize what happened.

You’d trapped Dean’s hand between your bodies, and he’s taken full advantage of the situation. For every honeyed and light kiss he presses over your cheeks and lips, he rubs your pussy with light, deft touches. A graze of your clit, then his thumb teasing over your entrance. It’s torture, the touches too light to do anything but make you feel insane, but you’re certain if you move away he’s just going to remove his hand altogether. Leaving you no other choice but to whimper, take it, and plead for mercy.

“More- There-” You bury your face in Dean’s neck, when he rubs your clit back and forth in a frenzy, then simply moves away. “Dean- I- I need to come, please, just, up- No-“

You tremble when he moves away again, humping against his hand. It doesn’t do anything—he’s too good at this—but you don’t think you could stop if you wanted to.

“Please, please, please-”

“You’re real good at begging, sweetheart.” Dean kisses the side of your head, and you nod weakly. “You think I’m not give you what you need?”

“I- I don’t think you’re showing any signs of it.” You breathe, and he laughs.

“Can’t argue with that. But you’re kinda restricting my movements.” He splits his two fingers, placing them around your pussy lips and rubbing slowly up down. “And trust, I’d love to play with your wet little pussy until you were coming all over my hand, but you started something on my pants. Think you should finish it.”

You lean back in slow confusion, and Dean nods between your bodies. You flush when you see it.

The faint dark spot, on his still hard crotch. You can’t look away from it.

Dean pulls your panties forward, then snaps them back against your pussy. Your hips jerk, wild eyes flying up to his, and he grins.

“Keep them on.” He smirks, dragging you back to sit on his crotch. “And take what you want.”

You nod breathlessly, grabbing the bench behind his head and starting to fuck down against Dean’s bulge. You’re more deliberate than before, gaze locked onto Dean’s, knowing exactly where to move to get the best friction. Dean watches you as if you’re sent from Heaven, licking his lips and rubbing your ass. He’s hiked up your skirt, giving him full access to whatever he wants. You expect handprints, maybe more teasing touches to keep you on the edge.

Instead, he grabs the back of your neck, and just watches you move on him. His mouth falls open, and when you lean a little down, he doesn’t hesitate to close the space.

Your speed picks up. The ruined fabric of your panties only adds to the friction, almost completely letting you feel the rough, tantalizing sensation of the denim. When you get your clit, it’s like being rolled between two pinched fingers, and you start to hump that one spot.

Dean groans, and when you catch against something, you realize you’re hitting the head of his cock.

You reach between your bodies, grabbing for something of him to hold onto, and find what has to be his balls. They’re big, heavy even when you’re not really holding them, and when you squeeze softly Dean’s whole body jerks.

“Fuck- Son of a bitch, you can’t just-“ Dean’s words turn into a long moan of your name, when you squeeze again.

You smile to yourself, riding him faster and faster. Dean’s eyes flutter, his fingers weaving into your hair. You throw your head back, and he chases. Starts to bite and suck on your neck again, pushing further and further up until you can no longer get a grip on his balls.

For a second, you try to push back, but Dean’s a solid wall of muscle. You’re using all your energy to keep yourself moving against him, and every thought empties from your head as his lips travel down.

Dean rips the top of your dress open. You hadn’t been wearing a bra. It would’ve ruined the outfit.

He has a clear, direct line to wrap his lips around your peeked nipple, and start to suck.

A loud, uncontrollable sound escapes your lips. You don’t know how he can be so good at that. His tongue flicks and swirls, teeth grazing against the bud, and all you can think of is what he’d do between your legs.

You movements are becoming shorter. More desperate. You press your breasts up, trying to demand more attention. Dean obliges, giving a harshsuckle before a series of kitten licks. He lazily kisses over the valley of your breasts, taking the neglected bud between his lips and sucking even harder than before.

“Oh- Oh my god.” You pull at the short, soft hair on the nape of his neck. He moans, mouth wet and warm wrapped around you. “Yes, Dean- Oh- Oh fuck-“

Your eyes roll back in your head, the pressure in your lower tummy just needing a little more to snap. You’re barely even humping him anymore, just thrashing around and trying to find the right position to get you there.

“I- I can’t-“ You scratch Dean’s back, pressing your cheek to the side of his head as you almost sob. “Dean, I need to cum, need to cum so fucking bad, Deeaan-“

His hand shoves between you, shoving one finger into your dripping pussy. Even with how wet you are there’s a slight stretch, and it’s just the one finger. You slam down onto him, your clit getting plenty of attention against his jeans, and you’re getting lightheaded with the need to find release.

Dean finger crooks inside you. Right against your g-spot. He wiggles it, rubbing fast and firm. His tongue presses flat against your nipple, swirling as he moans, and your shriek with delight.

You cum, shaking and moaning right into Dean’s ear. His finger slowly fucks you through it, but the moment you make a broken sound of his name, his lips are back over yours to swallow it. You don’t think you’ve ever cum that hard before. You can feel it all the way to the tips of your fingers, electric on your tongue as Dean kisses you.

Your pussy is clenching around his finger, and he grunts, angling his head to kiss you deeper. He pulls out slowly, rubbing your cunt until your wetness is smeared all over your thighs.

“The back.” He grunts, words thick and strained. “Get in the back.”

You feel bubbly. You’ve never felt bubbly before. There’s a rough command in Dean’s words that’s probably going to make you melt in a matter of minutes. But right now, you just giggle.

Dean leans back, looking at you like you’re insane.

“Sweetheart.” He wipes the hair stuck to your brow, and you can feel the tension in his voice. He’s trying to be patient. “What’re you laughing at?”

You shake your head, beaming as you press back over him. Dean grunts when you kiss him, but kisses back immediately.

“I just came on your pants.” You breathe.

He hums, leaning back to give you an exasperated look. “And that’s funny?”

“Last week I was crying about how I was never going to hold your hand.”

“Ah.” That makes him smile. He kisses your cheek, squeezing his hold on you. “We can do that later.” He mutters. “After we get in the back.”

You hum, going back in to kiss him again. Dean gives you five seconds, before you’re being picked up like a sack of potatoes and tosses over the bench. You land with a squeal, scrambling up to your palms, and Dean laughs.

“What the fuck-“

“Told you.” He shrugs, pulling his shirt over his head. “But don’t worry. Was counting on you not giving a damn what I told you to do.”

You gape at him. “I- I do what you tell me-“

“No, you don’t.”

“What about when you told me to go grocery shopping, I did that-“

“You got everything wrong.” He gives you an amused look, and you scowl, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Your list was confusing. And when I tried to call, you didn’t pick up.”

“List works for Sammy.”

“I’m not Sam, I need you to make a list for me-“

“I did make a list for you.” Dean crawls over the bench, grinning down at you. “And you still bought that fuckin’ turkey meat.”

You swallow, unable to stop yourself from drinking him in. You’ve seen him shirtless before, but it’s always been quick glimpses you forced yourself to look away from, or in the context of a wound. But this, here, the car is filled with steam from your fun before, there’s only to golden halo of the streetlamp, and Dean is all yours to stare at, as much as you want.

His chest is broad, softer in some places than he’s probably been in his youth, but perfect. You’re going to be completely smothered in him, you could shove your face between his pecs, feel his thick biceps wrap tight around you as he fucks you like you’ve always dreamed. He’s covered in jagged scars and freckles. You want to touch every single one.

“Sam gave me twenty dollars not to get red meat.” You breathe.

Dean chuckles, pulling at his belt. “And you chose him over me?”

You meet his gaze again, sure you must look like a lost doe under all of him. You’re not sure what to do with yourself at all. “You didn’t give  me twenty dollars.”

“And if I gave you twenty bucks?” He grins, pulling down his pants.

That’s your queue to say something smart. You can’t think anything smart.

Dean’s cock stands proud above you, and it’s pretty. Prettier than a porn cock, and those things look like they’re plastic. Dean’s thick and veiny. He’s well groomed, his balls heavier than they felt before—they could fit in your mouth, and you might choke, but would that really be so bad—and the tip of him nice and curved. Just the sight of him makes your pussy clench around nothing. Your legs spread wider.

Dean’s throat bobs, as he follows the movement. He’s slowly stroking himself, and you watch his grip get white knuckled as you spread your legs wider.

You need to touch him. He touched you. It’s only fair.

But you reach for him, and Dean catches your wrist. Pins your arm over your head, forcing him to lower down. He settles between your legs, giving you a stern look that makes your breath hitch.

“No.” He chastises, and you pout.

“I wanna put you in my mouth.”

“You- Jesus, woman.” He lets out a sharp breath, closing his eyes. “You can’t freakin’ say that-“

“Why not-“

“I ain’t as young as I used to be, alright?”

You frown. “I know that.”

He shakes his head. “No, I mean-“ He sighs, dropping his brow against yours.

You pull your hand carefully out of his hold, running your fingers through his hair. He lets out a low rumbling sound, almost like a purr, so you keep going. He makes nice sounds. You’d like to collect all of them, and keep them in little jars on your shelf you can listen to whenever you want.

“I like the hair.” You say, soft and casual. Like his cock isn’t pressed right against your cunt. “And the beard?”

Dean huffs a low laugh. “Yeah?”

“Mhm. Makes you look your age.”

“I am my age-“

“In a sexy way.” You blurt, and he sits up, brows raised.

“A sexy way?”

“Yeah.” You nod, suddenly wanting to hide your face. “I mean, you’re- You’re always sexy- I’ve always wanted to have sex with you, but- But I also think, if it’s- If you’re going to be kissing me all the time- I’d like this-“

Dean shuts you up with a deep, open-mouthed kiss. You hum, thankful for the mercy, and shiver when you feel him peeling away the scraps of your underwear and dress. You don’t think you’re going to haver anything to ride home in.

Something to worry about later. When Dean’s not rubbing his dick against your pussy. The large head of his presses against your clit, Dean’s beard tickling your neck as he kisses everywhere his mouth can find, and you feel the pressure starting to build again.

“Dean…” You mumble. “Oh- Oh-“

He sucks on a hickey from before, and the previous orgasm had already made you more sensitive. Your back arches, forcing your swollen button to rub against his shaft, and your mouth falls open in a loud, lewd moan.

“Easy,” he mutters, dropping his weight. Forcing you back down. “Tryin’ to tell you, sweetheart. I’m barely fuckin’ holding it together, and if I blow before I get inside of you, I’m gonna drive myself off a cliff.”

You giggle despite yourself, letting your body relax into his touch. You trust him, and the idea of him just having you is enough to make your pussy ache. “Aw.” You turn, smiling at him. “You care.”

He snorts. “You always a brat? Or just when I’m fuckin’ you.”

“Do you want the real answer to that?”

“Hm.” Dean tilts his head, gaze raking over your body. Over every mark he’s left, to the point that you’re mostly a map of his hands and lips.

A smirk curve on his lips, and you feel one strong hand grab under your knee, moving it up to your chest. Putting you on full, naked display.

“Nah.” He drawls. “I think I’m good.”

The air is knocked from your lungs, as he presses forward. His cock slides slowly into you, filling the car with the hottest, wettest sound you’ve ever heard. You grab his forearm, just trying to ground yourself, and he goes for your other knee.

Dean bends you in half under him, folding you into a pressed little ball. You can see yourself swallowing his cock. See every inch disappear into your pussy, every vein right before it bumps inside your gooey walls. Dean’s chest is heaving, his features open and slack.

“Fuck.” He grunts. Reverent and as wrecked as you feel. “Son of a bitch, you fit me like a goddamn glove. Takin’ me like a champ, sweetheart, c’mon- Just a little more-“

He spits on where you’re meeting, on your clit, and you try to arch up. He grunts, pushing the last few inches fully in.

You throw your head back, trying to adjust to the feeling of being so full. He feels even bigger than he looked, and you’d forget to breathe if he didn’t wrap his hand around your ribcage, and squeeze gently.

“Good?” Dean’s voice cracks, and you can almost see his chest rippling with the restraint to hold still.

You nod, opening your mouth, then closing it when words fail you. He’s just- He’s so big and everywhere. He’s pushed over your g-spot, and it’s making you feel like you’re being dragged through a pool of pleasure. There’s nothing else to think about.

Dean’s brow furrows. “Baby, I need you to talk to me-“

“Good.” You breathe out. “So- So good, Deaaaan-“

You tug on his wrist, trying to bring him down to your level. He immediately understands, bending over for a kiss. You relax as his lips move against yours, pushing your hips a little up to take in more of him. You might be able to cum just like this. Impaled on Dean’s cock. Usually you’d need something more, but you’re hypersensitive, and it’s like he was made to be inside you.

You smile at him, when he pulls back up. He swallows, slowly reaching up to grab your jaw.

“I’m gonna move, alright?”

You hum, still smiling, and Dean takes in a slow breath.

“Can you keep lookin’ at me?”

You nod, and his lips twitch.

“You really can’t talk right now, huh?”

Head shake. Dean’s eyes glint, and your mouth falls open as he thrusts. Once, harsh and short against your g-spot.

“So fuckin’ cockdrunk you can’t speak.” He drawls, grinding slowly into your pussy. Still too shallow to be anything. Just working your g-spot until tears prick at your eyes. “You think you can at least say my name, baby?”

“Deeean-“ You mewl out, gasping as he finally gives a full, deep thrust. “Dean- Dean-“

“That’s it.” He grunts, pulling almost fully out before slamming back in. “That’s my girl. Nice and dumb on this cock. Just letting it happen, aren’t you sweetheart.”

“Mmmm.” Is all you can manage, but it’s Dean’s fault.

He’s fucking you like a man possessed. Cock slipping in and out of your channel, drilling into your g-spot and cervix. You can see it, see the vein in his brow as he moans your name, see the mess forming around your pussy as you soak his dick.

“Dean.” You babble, a strange, tight heat forming deep inside you. “Deaan, ‘s- ‘s big-“

“I know.” He coos. “I know, baby, but- Shit- You’re takin’ it so well. Best thing I’ve ever fuckin’ felt-“

He grunts, balls slapping against your ass. His body is sticky and shining with sweat, and you can’t stop yourself from staring at how he moves as he fucks you. Each motion is so powerful, and there’s an impossibly good, perverted feeling you get from watching where you meet, and-

“Look.” He grunts, tapping your chin with his thumb. “Look at me, sweetheart, come on-“

You blink up at him, and he groans, bending over as he slams inside.

You don’t think. Your mouth opens, and you take his thumb between your lips, sucking softly. It’s nice to have something to do, when you’re too fucked out to even remember your own name.

And it does something to Dean. His thrusts stutter, and a deep, growling sound comes from his chest. You hum, blinking up at him from glossy eyes. He groans, chest heaving, and something snaps in his expression.

Dean fucks you so hard you could swear the car was shaking. His thumb pushes further between your lips, and you take it happily. You can feel the sensation between your legs building, a little different than your usual orgasm, but it’s good. Tingly and hot, almost like you’re being shot up with direct euphoria. Your lashes flutter, and you moan around Dean’s thumb as he starts to give sharp, abusing thrusts to your g-spot.

He bends like he’s trying to get his mouth on your pussy, only just remembering his body can’t move like that and pulling his hand away from your mouth. You’re about to whine in frustration, but then Dean finds your clit.

He gives it tight, back and forth rubs that make your hips buck up. He uses his cock to bully them back down, rubbing even harder, and the sensation explodes like fireworks. 

 It’s wet and messy, spilling out of your pussy with Dean still seated deep inside you. He moans, dropping over you as you milk his cock, dragging him into orgasm with you. You’re shaking, cumming and cumming harder than you can keep up with. You can feel the release—yours or Dean’s, doesn’t really matter—sticking inside of you and dribbling down your ass.

Dean kisses you, and you barely manage to kiss him back. You’re boneless and floaty again, your body so washed with pleasure you might be shaking from it. Like he’d struck you with lightning.

“You did so good.” Dean murmurs, pulling slowly out. “That was- Fuck, that was awesome.”

You smile in a dazed agreement, beaming up at him, and everything in Dean seems to soften. He presses a gentle kiss to your brow and pulls you upright, helping you settle in the bench before getting himself to work.

He tries to clean up the seats, but gives up fast and mumbles something about doing it back home. You were right in assuming your clothing was ruined, so Dean just gives you his shirt and wraps an arm around your shoulders, holding you against him for the drive home.

When you pull in to the garage, he doesn’t give you a chance to try and walk. You’re hauled into his arms like a princess and marched inside, Dean only pausing to wipe the back bench and stop a smell.

First stop is the bathroom. Then Dean offers to bring you to your bed—the words weighted and reluctant—but you shove your face into his neck and shake you head.

Dean. You need to be near Dean.

He carries you to his bed with a tall pride, and somehow manages to keep a hand on you as he changes into his own sweats. You cuddle into him, smiling when he presses a kiss to your brow.

“If I forget this,” he murmurs. “Remind me in the morning.”

You laugh softly, voice quiet but returned. “If you forget, I’m going to kill you.”

“And I woulda earned that.”

“Mh.” You curl further into his arms, and—unable to help it—whisper. “Don’t forget.”

Dean kisses the top of your head, words a lullaby as you drift off to slip.

“Never. I’m yours now, sweetheart. Like it or not.”

You like it.

You don’t think you could like it more if you tried.  

✦End note: deeply unfair that he isn't real. we gotta talk to someone about that.✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

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New York isn’t a great place to be when you’re caught in the middle of a storm. Even less so when it involves things as delicate as money laundering and a few other matters your father never dared to explain. And you didn’t ask. You already knew. Played the good daughter who keeps out of it, because it was enough to unlock your phone and read the first headline you found.

Senator Enzo Vandspell Discloses Alleged International Corruption Network, Prompting Federal Scrutiny

WASHINGTON — Senator Enzo Vandspell, a prominent advocate for anti-corruption measures in Congress, disclosed on Wednesday a series of documents he says point to the existence of a far-reaching network engaged in money laundering and narcotics trafficking, with alleged connections spanning Latin America, Europe, and the United States.

Speaking at a press conference on Capitol Hill, Vandspell stated that the findings stem from an investigation conducted by his office over the course of more than a year. According to the senator, the materials suggest the involvement of business executives, public officials, and financial intermediaries in schemes utilizing shell companies and offshore accounts to obscure substantial sums of illicit funds.

“This is not an isolated matter,” Vandspell said. “What we are seeing reflects a broader pattern of coordinated activity that has persisted for years, enabled in part by systemic gaps in oversight.”

The documents, portions of which were made available to federal authorities, outline mechanisms including the transfer of funds through jurisdictions with limited financial transparency and the use of inflated contracts tied to public infrastructure projects. Vandspell declined to identify specific individuals or entities during the briefing, citing the sensitivity of the information and the potential for ongoing legal proceedings.

A spokesperson for the Department of Justice confirmed receipt of the materials but declined to comment further, noting that it does not discuss potential or ongoing investigations.

Separately, Vandspell’s office reported an increase in security concerns following the disclosure. In a brief statement, staff confirmed that additional protective measures have been implemented in coordination with federal authorities, both in Washington and at the senator’s private residences. Officials have not released further details regarding the nature of the reported threats.

You should be home right now. No, out of New York entirely. But Celine had spent months working toward her gallery opening, and you couldn’t miss it. Not that anyone here particularly cared who you were. No, they cared who your father was. And anyway, you’d heard Leonardo DiCaprio was around somewhere, so the focus wasn’t exactly on you. Or not entirely.

“Miss Vandspell.”

You turned, already knowing the voice. Louis, one of your bodyguards. “Yes?”

“Your car will be here in ten minutes.”

You nodded, offering him a polite smile before shifting your gaze to the man beside him. The other one. Javier. He didn’t react. Not a single muscle in his face moved.

They worked as a team. Synergy, to keep you safe. You didn’t know where Louis had come from, he had simply appeared one day, ten years ago, when your father introduced him and explained that he would be with you from then on. He was serious, rigid, somewhere in his fifties. He’d escorted you to school, stood watch at every dance, always there, even at a distance. And you knew he was your father’s line straight to you. Everything you did, your father knew, courtesy of Louis. Years of living under quiet surveillance, all in the name of your safety.

Javier was different. He showed up a year and a half ago, right when your father’s investigation kicked off. You didn’t know much about him, and you didn’t ask too much, just the basics. You’d seen him working for your father a handful of times, and then one morning he was in your apartment next to Louis, just like that.

Early forties, maybe. Quiet and serious. He gave nothing away about who he really was. Though you had caught it; small signs of impatience, brief looks of weariness more than once when he had to accompany you in public.

His eyes were onyx black, gleaming within a face that gave away absolutely nothing, again. Pure, unadulterated vacancy. And you know what they say about blank spaces; they’re just waiting for you to fill in the blanks with whatever idea suits you best.

A mysterious man whose name you’d pried out of mutual contacts. You had the highlight reel: retired agent, occasional magnet for controversy, and a reliable asset to your father. Strong hands.

The ambiguity fed you in bursts. You told yourself it was only natural, this is what happens when someone is around for more than twelve hours a day, nearly every day. And at the end of it all, you were just a curious woman.

He gave the distinct impression of a man living under heavy restraint. His shoulders were permanently knotted, his brow perpetually furrowed, and there was always something clenched in his jaw. And on rare occasions, you would catch the sound of a weary exhale; sometimes while he stood just outside your hotel room door. In the profound hush of a still night, it carried as clearly as if he were standing right beside you: a heavy, drawn out breath. Even through the wood of the door, his physical tension was palpable.

You knew he had no wife, no children. That was the very first thing you noticed the day you met; your eyes had instinctively found his hand and noted the absence of a ring. Somehow, it fit. Men who did what he did didn’t exactly build lives that stayed still. Not when their job was tailing someone for hours on end, following them from city to city like a shadow with a gun.

Some days your curiosity barely registered. Other days, it itched at you badly enough to make you want to ask questions; about him, his life, who he’d been before all this. But you always caught yourself before you crossed the line. There wasn’t much point asking a man like him anything personal. He wasn’t the type to answer, anyway.

Now, he stepped forward and opened the gallery door for you.

Another thing that had always been part of your life. You grew up with doors opening before you could reach them, cars waiting with engines running, routes mapped out for you; detours decided without your knowledge. Men in suits surrounding you, steadying you, taking you where you wanted to go and where you didn’t.

Your car door was already open when you stepped outside.

“I need to stop by my apartment—”

“Give my regards to your daddy.”

You stopped short. The scream never made it past your throat. One second you were standing there and the next, your whole body was soaked. Your eyes snapped shut, burning instantly. It hit all at once; your mouth, your nose, the back of your throat.

Gasoline.

“Louis—” you choked, hands flying to your face, smearing it away as panic surged. You grabbed the man beside you, fingers digging into his shoulders as he forced you forward.

“Get in the car. Inside. Head down,” he barked. It wasn’t Louis. Javier.

He shoved you toward the car, already moving faster than your mind could catch up. Louis’s voice rang somewhere in the distance: “Go, go!”

Javier pushed you into the backseat, one hand shielding your head as he forced you down. The door slammed shut behind you, sealing you in as he shoved you sideways.

“Vandspell. Now,” he ordered the driver.

You almost argued; told him no, that you had to, that you wanted to go to your apartment, but the words never quite made it out.

Your eyes burned. Your throat, too. It didn’t matter how many times you swallowed or how hard you scrubbed at your face with gasoline-soaked hands, it only made it worse.

“Stay still.”

His hand closed around your jaw, firm enough to keep you in place. You obeyed and a second later, Javier was carefully wiping your face with a towel.

“Who was it?” you asked as he moved the cloth over your eyes, more gently this time. “What did he look like?”

“Louis has him. Don’t worry about that.”

“That’s not what I asked.” Your voice came out sharp. You didn’t feel particularly inclined to be polite. Not now. Not like this.

“A man,” Javier said. “Wearing a balaclava.”

“Where’s Louis?”

It was the second time you’d asked, and the second time Javier ignored you. The first had been in the car, while he drove in absolute silence down the highway, refusing to tell you where the hell you were going, too. The second was now, as he pulled your suitcase from the trunk and started toward the cabin.

“Javier, you have to tell me if he’s okay.”

He stopped just before the short steps leading up to the porch and turned to face you.

“He’s fine. Louis is fine.”

“Is he coming with us?”

“I don’t know.” He turned back around and kept walking. Up the stairs, through the front door; though he didn’t actually step inside. He stayed planted in the doorway and jerked his chin once. “Get in.”

You tightened your grip on your bag strap and hurried after him. Your hair was still messy from the rushed shower you’d taken back at your father’s house, barely towel dried, and your throat still burned faintly from the gasoline you’d swallowed earlier.

Five hours away from Manhattan, your father kept a cabin hidden among the dense timber of the Adirondack Mountains. It was a lush, cold, and hostile wilderness during the winter months, and through all three hundred and sixty five nights of the year. The jagged peaks were hidden from view, masked by the thick treeline surrounding you, and while the mist was thin for now, you knew it would only thicken as the night went on.

You’d been here once before, when you were around ten. Your father had tucked you and your mother away here for a week. You remembered board games, hot chocolate, and men stationed outside with weapons slung over their shoulders. Men who spoke into bulky cellphones or radios that had looked ancient to you back then. Now you understood why; the signal out here was complete shit. Practically nonexistent.

"Drop it, don't touch that," Javier’s voice materialized behind you a split second before he snatched the phone from your hand.

“What are you doing?” You turned to face him.

The two of you stood in the living room, where the windows stretched floor to ceiling, though the gray light outside still left the cabin dim. Javier crossed the room and switched on one of the lamps beside the couch before slipping your phone into his pocket.

Then he stepped toward you.

“You’re not to contact anyone while we’re here. You understand me?”

“How exactly would I do that?” You crossed your arms. “We’re in the middle of nowhere. There’s no signal.”

Javier turned away and headed toward the small open kitchen a few feet off the living room.

“Why don’t you go take a proper shower instead? There’s more stuff for you in the red suitcase. Erica packed it.”

Erica. Your father’s housekeeper.

“You’re still not going to tell me what’s happening?” You followed after him, catching his shoulder with your hand and forcing him to look at you. “You seriously expect to drag me all the way out here, say ten words total and think that’s enough?”

“What else do you need to know?” he asked evenly. “A lunatic doused you in gasoline with a lighter in his hand. He was trying to hurt you.”

“What about my family? Are they safe back there? I told him he should’ve gotten out of New York—”

“They’re not after him.” He moved closer, his eyes locking onto yours. “They’re after you. They want to stop him from exposing whatever he found, and right now, you’re the only leverage they’ve got. You understand?”

“Yes, I do. I’m not stupid.” Your voice sharpened. “They wanted to use me as a threat. Fine. But if that’s the case, why try to kill me on the first shot? Wouldn’t it make more sense to send a warning first?”

Javier’s jaw tightened as he took a step back. Your eyes swept over his face in a flash.

“So now you’re critiquing their methods?” he asked.

“I’m just saying. If they wanted to hurt me, going for it on the first try without even making a threat first feels pretty sloppy,” you said, folding your arms across your chest. “Why’d they do that?”

He gave a faint shake of his head, lips pressing into a thin line. Then he tipped his chin up just slightly.

“Listen, why don’t you go get settled in? I’ll check the property and finish unloading the car.”

“You’re letting me go to my room alone?”

Javier’s eyes flicked toward yours. “For a minute. You’re a big girl, aren’t you? I’m sure you can survive without me for a couple of minutes.”

You hummed softly and took a step back, uncrossing your arms.

“Alright. If I need you, I’ll call,” you said, turning around. “Unless, of course, they gag me first.”

Behind you, you heard him scoff.

From your bedroom window, you could watch night settling in for good. The view from where you stood was limited, but beautiful all the same; a long stretch of trees, and beyond them, just the faintest glimpse of water catching what little light remained. The mountains in the distance were barely visible now, their peaks rising behind the dark canopy of green.

The window was cracked open just enough for cool air to slip inside, fresh against your skin and enough to leave goosebumps trailing down your arms. Your body still held onto the heat from the shower.

You could still smell gasoline, though at this point you figured the scent had burned itself into your nose. You’d scrubbed yourself down with soap over and over again, brushed your teeth at least three times after getting out, then sprayed perfume through your hair before blow-drying it. Thank God Erica had packed one in the red suitcase.

Javier had knocked on the bathroom door ten minutes ago and walked away after you told him everything was fine. No intruder hiding in the shower with you, thankfully.

Now, as you adjusted your clean clothes against your skin and your stomach growled in protest, you glanced down at the watch on your wrist. Eight thirty at night.

You found Javier crouched in front of the fireplace when you came downstairs.

“I’m starving. Is there anything in the fridge?”

You knew he’d stopped at a gas station in the middle of some tiny town on the drive out here. You hadn’t seen what he bought or how much of it, only that he’d walked out carrying a massive box, shoved it into the trunk without explanation, then gone back inside for more.

“Yeah. Check the counter too,” he said.

You turned on your heel and headed where he’d pointed. The cardboard box sat open on the counter: ground coffee, black tea, three different kinds of cookies, protein bars, several packs of pasta, salt, sugar, rye bread, every canned thing imaginable including beans, chickpeas, soups, giant jars of sauce, bags upon bags of beef jerky and mixed nuts, plus fruit like apples and oranges and a decent amount of vegetables. Off to the side sat two massive gallons of mineral water.

“How long are we staying here?” you asked as you moved toward the fridge.

When you opened it, you found trays of meat and four sandwiches wrapped tightly in plastic.

“I don’t know.” His voice sounded closer now; he was walking into the kitchen.

“That’s a lot of food.”

“Better too much than not enough, right?”

Without answering, you reached in and grabbed one of the sandwiches. It was huge. A sticker across the top listed the ingredients.

“Says it was made today. Think that’s actually true?”

You glanced over at him. Javier stepped closer and tilted his head slightly.

“If it’s not rotten, give it a shot.”

You pressed your tongue against the inside of your cheek. You weren’t in the mood to argue about food, and you definitely weren’t in the mood to cook for yourself.

“Want to eat with me?” you asked, leaning toward the fridge again. “Louis always eats with me.”

“I know. I stand by the door while he does, remember?” He crossed his arms, leaning back against the counter. “Nobody’s doing that for me now.”

“We’re in the middle of nowhere,” you said, pulling out another sandwich. “I think you can survive sitting down to eat with me.”

A minute after you dropped into one of the dining chairs, rain began tapping softly against the cabin roof. Outside, the fog had swallowed almost everything whole, turning the world beyond the windows into a blur of silver and black. Darkness stretched endlessly in every direction except for the moonlight; full tonight, huge and bright enough that its pale glow burst through the mist like scattered frost.

Javier (much against his better judgment, you suspected) sat across from you at the other end of the table, holding his brisket and vegetable sandwich with a faint frown as he took a bite.

Carefully, you peeled the lettuce from yours and set it on the wrapper. It smelled incredible; your mouth watered instantly. You took a bite and closed your eyes for a second at the taste.

“Oh my God, this is so good.”

Javier let out a quiet huff of laughter. It was brief and soft. “No lettuce?”

You waited until you swallowed. “Lettuce is the first thing that goes bad. Tomatoes too, but lettuce dies first.”

“It looked fresh enough.”

“I’m not risking it.”

He tilted his head slightly and took another bite.

Between you sat two glasses of water and an open bag of chips. Your gaze drifted through the glass in front of him, catching the warped image of his hand beneath the waterline; fingers distorted as they curled tightly, for some reason, around the handle of the butter knife resting beside his wrapper.

Your eyes traveled upward, past his watch, past the smooth skin of his forearm dusted with fine dark hair.

“Do you have a girl?”

The question came out so bluntly, stripped clean of the usual social cushioning, that he stopped chewing.

Honestly, it surprised you too.

The hand holding your sandwich lowered to the table little by little.

Javier looked at you with an unreadable expression, though you caught the slightest tightening near the corners of his eyes.

“That’s… none of your business.”

“So that’s a no?” Heat crawled into your cheeks. “A man like you—hard to believe you spend all your time alone when you’re not standing behind me.”

His jaw flexed as he chewed. One, two, three, four… five times before swallowing.

“Are you bored?”

You smiled faintly. “I’m asking a question. It’s been a long day, and we’re running out of things to talk about.”

Javier exhaled quietly and glanced toward the kitchen counter behind you.

“I move around too much for that. This kind of job doesn’t exactly leave room for domestic bliss.” His eyes flicked back to yours. “Now finish your sandwich and get some sleep.”

“You’re redirecting,” you pointed out with a small, knowing smile. “Is she in New York? Or back wherever you came from?”

That finally pulled his full attention back to you.

“You’re too curious for your own good, you know that?” he said. “Dangerous habit, sticking your nose into things that don’t concern you.”

“Maybe I am bored,” you teased, lifting one shoulder lightly. Your gaze wandered over the breadth of his shoulders before returning to his face. “Besides, you’ve spent an entire year following me around and learning every detail of my routine. I think I’m entitled to a few answers. Unless the truth’s just painfully boring.”

A crooked, amused smile tugged at his mouth.

“I don’t think you’re entitled to anything.”

Your brows lifted slightly.

“And boring isn’t the word I’d use anyway,” he added.

“Then what is the word?” You tilted your head, hair spilling over your shoulder. “Complicated? Or are you just rusty? I saw the way you looked at that girl at the gala last month — the one who tried to give you her number. Were you about to frisk her?”

Javier leaned forward, eyes narrowing, though there was a flicker of reluctant amusement buried beneath the irritation.

“Maybe she was a security risk.”

You smiled. “She was five two in four inch heels. The only thing she threatened was your peace of mind.” A soft laugh slipped out of you. “Admit it. You’re out of practice.”

A dry sound escaped him, and halfway to a laugh he swallowed it down behind a frown.

“Why don’t we try eating in silence instead, huh? Maybe you’re just hungry. And tired.”

You let the sandwich fall onto its wrapper.

“Don’t do that.”

His eyes locked onto yours.

“Don’t talk to me like I’m a child. I’m not.” You lifted your chin slightly. “I’m used to Louis acting like that because he’s been doing it for a decade, but you’re not Louis.” Your voice stayed even. “And I’m not tired.”

“How?” he asked, and you noticed the defensive edge had left his voice, settling into something quieter. “It’s been a long day. Longer than most. You should be exhausted.”

“I don’t sleep much, and you know that.” You reached for your glass of water. “Besides, it’s too quiet out here.”

You took another bite of your sandwich and ignored the way he kept watching you. His fingers tapped once against the wooden table.

“Well, you’re strangely calm considering what happened today. How are you feeling? Really.”

You swallowed your food. In the privacy of your own head, you thought about the smell of gasoline; the slick, half-thick texture of it soaked into your skin and clothes.

“I’m okay. I mean, my throat still burns a little, and I’ll probably smell gasoline in my sleep for the next week, but I’m okay.”

Javier’s jaw tightened. He looked down at his hands.

“Most people would be scared.”

“Maybe I’ve spent too much time around men like you and my father,” you said with a faint smile. “Eventually you learn how to compartmentalize. Or maybe I just haven’t processed how close it actually was because you were there.” You tilted your head slightly. “Give it a few days. Maybe the shock will catch up to me then.”

“Huh.” His eyes lifted back to yours. “You’re tougher than you look.”

Your ego swelled at that despite yourself.

“You think so?”

“Yeah. I figured that out a while ago.” One corner of his mouth twitched faintly. “That, combined with your invasive questions, makes it pretty hard to see you as some porcelain doll.”

Your fingers curled tighter around your glass, though you didn’t lift it. You kept your eyes fixed on him.

“Is that really what you think I am? A porcelain doll?”

Javier pressed his lips together and stayed perfectly still. His gaze didn’t leave yours.

He didn’t answer.

“You’re wrong,” you continued, leaning a little farther over the table. “Porcelain’s fragile. It cracks the second things get bad. I’ve spent my whole life in houses where the walls have ears and every move is planned before it happens. What other choice did I have?”

“I don’t think you’re made of porcelain,” he said quietly. “Not even close. That’s what I meant. But I've heard people talk about you when I first started working for your dad. That's all.”

You blinked once. “Then what do you think I am?”

You caught the way his eyes almost smiled, completely at odds with the rest of his expression. He was thinking something.

But what?

He lifted his chin slightly and tilted his head.

"You're more like… like the glass they use in those high-rise buildings in the city," he said, holding your eyes. "You know, looks delicate from the street, like you could put a fist through it if you tried. But it's reinforced. It's built to take the pressure of the wind and the heat without cracking." A faint smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth. “You’re not fragile. You’re just used to being handled with gloves.”

The honesty in his voice made you go still. So did the smugness.

Javier looked calm, but the feeling was there in the smallest details; in the flicker of his expression, the confidence sitting quietly beneath every word.

“And what happens if you take the gloves off? Can you do that for me?”

He froze. His dark eyes locked onto your face and moved over it with maddening slowness, never losing intensity. The surprise wasn’t invisible this time. He started studying you with a heaviness that felt almost physical, like being touched.

A muscle jumped in his jaw. His gaze dropped briefly to your hand resting on the table before returning to your eyes. His pupils had blown wide.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he said.

Every trace of professionalism had vanished from his voice.

“Don’t I?”

“Of course not.”

“And how exactly would you know that?” you asked with a smile. “I wasn’t being very subtle, was I?”

Javier tilted his head, studying you a little more carefully now.

“Vandspell,” he said slowly, “what exactly are you trying to say?”

Oh, he could not ask you that while looking at you like that.

You’d spent a year and a half with him at your back, following you everywhere. Of course you’d noticed the way he looked at you sometimes; rare, but obvious when it happened. And maybe it was the aftershock finally kicking in, or maybe today had knocked something loose inside your head, because suddenly you felt very, very capable of saying exactly what you wanted.

What was he going to do? Run?

And honestly, Javier didn’t strike you as the type of man who’d go tattling to your father about your behavior. No; he seemed much more like the type who’d join in.

So, fuck it.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” you said. “I’m curious.”

“Curious about what?”

“You.”

His brows lifted. “Me?”

You nodded.

“What useful thing could you possibly want to know about me?”

“Oh, a few things.”

You leaned farther onto the table. He swallowed.

“You know, I looked into you a little when my father first hired you.” You tilted your head. “Almost everything I found was about your professional life. That was disappointing.”

“My professional life disappointed you?”

“No. Not being able to find out anything about your personal life disappointed me.”

A quiet huff of laughter escaped him. “What could you possibly want to know about me? Let me ask again.”

“Do you have a girl?”

Javier hid the beginning of a smirk behind his hand. “No. I already told you that.”

“So nobody’s waiting for you back in the city?” you pressed, keeping your voice casual even as your heartbeat picked up against your ribs. “No one complaining about your hours or how impossible you are to deal with when you're tired after work?”

“No.” His eyes stayed fixed on yours. “No one’s waiting.”

“Good.” The word slipped out before you could stop it.

“Don’t say that.”

“Why not? It’s true.” You refused to look away. “I’m glad there’s nobody else. Is that so wrong?”

He let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh and shook his head, looking down at his sandwich.

“What?” you asked lightly. “I’m just curious.”

He leaned forward just slightly. Like standing one step from the edge of something steep.

“No. You aren’t.” His tone flattened again. “You’re bored. We’re trapped in a cabin with no TV, no signal, and you’ve spent your whole life being the center of attention. Now it’s just me, so you’re fishing for a reaction.” His eyes narrowed faintly. “You’re poking at me to see if the hired help has a pulse.” A pause. “Why don’t you save these games for your boyfriend?”

That made you smile.

“You can’t stand Wes.”

Javier lifted his brows and tipped his head to the side.

“I’ve seen the way you look at him,” you continued. “The eye rolls every time he opens his mouth. Those exhausted sighs you let out whenever you’re stuck standing next to us.” Your smile widened slightly. “You’re really not that good at pretending.”

“Oh yeah?” he said dryly. “Do tell.”

“Well, I think it’s only fair, don’t you?” you said. “If you get to spend almost two years watching me, then I get to spend almost two years watching you too.” You tilted your head slightly. “What’s it like? Spending hours every day just… waiting for me to finish dinner or for some meeting to finally end?”

“It’s part of the paycheck. You get used to it.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“Alright,” he said, his voice dropping lower. “Since you’re so curious, let’s flip it around. What exactly do you think you’re doing right now?” His eyes stayed pinned to yours. “Because I know for a fact you’re not this talkative in the city. Half the time you barely say two words to me in the car.”

You swallowed once.

“Maybe it’s the lack of an audience.”

“I don’t buy it.”

You shrugged and picked your sandwich back up, taking a small bite. Across from you, he kept watching.

“You’re not wrong, by the way,” he said after a moment. “About Wes.”

He shifted slightly, resting an arm along the back of the chair beside him. His eyes drifted toward the window to your left, the shadow of a grimace crossing his face.

“I find him incredibly childish,” he admitted, shaking his head. “The way he talks, the way he carries himself… I honestly thought you would’ve realized that by now. I figured someone as observant as you would’ve gotten tired of the performance months ago.”

You smiled, feeling a strange little victory in his honesty “He can be immature, but he’s not a bad guy.”

“It’s exhausting to watch, especially when I’m the one making sure his complete lack of situational awareness doesn’t get you both killed.” His jaw tightened. “Like at that party last week. The way he practically tried to drag you into that car? He was wasted.”

Your eyes flickered at the memory.

Yeah. Wes had been an idiot. He’d tried to get behind the wheel of his Lambo while drunk out of his mind and high on molly, then nearly thrown a tantrum when you told him you were going home alone. Javier had pulled you away by the arm before you even had the chance to argue.

“You’re a lot of things,” Javier continued, “but you’re not stupid. So yeah, it’s frustrating watching you settle for someone who doesn’t even know which direction the wind’s blowing.”

“A lot of things?” you repeated with a smile, brows pulling together slightly. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”

He shook his head once. “Nothing. You’re persistent. Extremely persistent.” He nodded toward your sandwich. “Come on, eat. You’re hungry, aren’t you? Let’s finish dinner so I can get back to doing my job.”

“Your job is watching me, Javier,” you reminded him softly. “And I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. So watch me all you want.”

Surrounded by darkness, pure cold air, and a room you didn’t fully recognize, your hand flew to your chest as your eyes snapped open wide with panic. A bolt of lightning had struck somewhere nearby, violent enough to rattle the windowpanes, but even then, you couldn’t tell whether it was the thunder that had dragged you awake, or the nightmare still clawing at the inside of your head.

Outside, the rain fell in a heavy torrent, its frantic galloping against the roof mimicking the rhythm in your chest. You grabbed your phone to check the time: 3:00 AM. No, 3:31. And for a fleeting second, your mind drifted back to the legends whispered by schoolmates years and years ago. They said that at 3:33 AM, the veil thins, and creatures lurking in the cracks of the day emerge; it was the hour when the impossible and unusual became reality.

The room felt cavernous, its high corners swallowing the light and casting long jagged shadows. And the door stood half open, revealing nothing but pitch black hallway beyond it.

You pushed the blankets aside and lowered your feet onto the floor. Freezing.

Phone clutched tightly in your hand, you stepped into the hallway and pushed the flashlight over it, casting a pale beam over every step as you followed it toward the staircase.

“Javier?”

BOOM.

Another crack of thunder jolted through the house, making you jump in place. Your head whipped around instantly… Had the floor creaked behind you?

Your heart raced at a frantic pace as you rushed down the stairs, ignoring the thudding in your chest and the biting chill crawling up your legs.

Below, the living room flickered to life every few seconds, caught in the pale erratic flashes of lightning. The fireplace offered a pulsing warm glow that bled across the rug and the couch across from it, and on the coffee table sat a pack of cigarettes and a handgun. But Javier was nowhere to be seen.

You scanned the room, searching for a flashlight or anything useful, but found nothing. You spun on your heel and—

"Shit!"

Just as another bolt of lightning tore through the sky, bathing the room in a ghostly white glare, Javier appeared right in front of you.

Drenched to the bone, with wet hair plastered to his forehead, he stood there holding a heavy flashlight and a set of keys.

"You... you scared the shit out of me," you mumbled, recoiling a step. You knit your brows together. "What happened?"

"The power’s out," he rasped.

"I know that."

"The storm must've taken out a line down the road. Go to the fireplace; I’ve got the fire going. It’s the only place that’ll stay warm."

He brushed past you and stopped by the couch. He reached down, took the weapon, and tucked it out of sight.

"Sit," he commanded.

Without a word, you obeyed; the cold was becoming unbearable and exhaustion weighed heavy on your eyelids. You walked over and sank into the soft cushions of the couch. You were wearing only an oversized t-shirt that left your thighs exposed to the air; instinctively, you pulled the hem of the fabric down with one hand to cover yourself.

He vanished from your sight then, and you flicked off your phone’s flashlight, tossing the device onto the coffee table like the useless piece of hardware it had become. Before you, the fire roared, flames dancing restlessly from side to side. The warmth helped, but barely.

“Here.”

At the sound of his voice, you turned your head toward him. Javier stood behind the couch.

Without a word, he draped a thick heavy blanket over your shoulders. His fingers were still wet and freezing, and they lingered briefly against the back of your neck; the touch made you shiver. A second later, he pulled away and moved around the couch, sinking onto the opposite end with enough distance between you to feel intentional. He barely moved after that.

Water continued dripping from his clothes, leaving dark stains across the upholstery as the storm raged outside.

“You’re soaked,” you said quietly, your eyes trailing over him. “Why were you even outside?”

“Checking the power lines.”

His gaze never left the fire.

You frowned, watching the fabric of his shirt cling to his skin like a second layer of cold.

“Why don’t you change?”

“Don’t have anything here.” His jaw tightened faintly. “Louis is bringing the rest of the stuff tomorrow. Clothes included.”

“I’m sorry.”

In the ensuing silence, the reality of the situation felt heavier than the wool on your shoulders. The entire trip had been so rushed that neither of you had stopped to consider that a storm of this magnitude could leave you trapped and empty handed.

What if Louis couldn't reach you tomorrow?

As was his custom, your father would surely send more than one man. Javier, Louis, maybe Renzo, and likely Nora, who usually accompanied you on matters like this. But if the downpour persisted and the roads became impassable, there was no telling if they’d make it.

"So you're just going to stay like that? Drenched?"

“Yes.”

“You could dry off, you know,” you insisted, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself. “It’s not a big deal if you take the clothes off. But if you stay wet, you’re definitely gonna get sick.” You nodded toward the hallway. “There are towels in the closet.”

Javier seemed to process your words with a pause. For a moment, the only sound was the wind lashing against the windowpanes and the rumble of the sky.

His fingers brushed the edge of his sodden cuff, hesitating.

"Your hair is dripping," you added, as the final blow to his resistance.

A quiet sigh slipped out of him and he pushed himself to his feet. Grabbing the flashlight from the coffee table, he disappeared down the hallway without another word, as his silhouette was swallowed by darkness and the sound of his footsteps echoed across the wooden floorboards.

You took advantage of his absence to burrow deeper into the heavy blanket. Tucking your legs onto the couch, you leaned back, sinking into the cushions until only your eyes peered over the edge of the wool. The fire’s heat was finally taking hold, numbing your limbs and stilling the tremors in your body.

A moment later, Javier returned.

The jacket, shirt and jeans were gone. He walked with his torso completely bare, revealing a landscape of muscle and warm-toned skin. He wore only a towel wrapped low, clinging precariously to the line of his hips.

You fell silent, a sudden knot tightening in your throat. Your eyes betrayed you, tracing the breadth of his shoulders and the firmness of his chest, where traces of dampness still glistened. Your gaze drifted downward involuntarily, following the thin line of hair below his navel that disappeared beneath the waist of the towel.

A heat flared within you that had nothing to do with the hearth. You quickly averted your eyes toward the fire, hoping the dancing shadows on your cheeks would mask the unmistakable creep of a blush.

"Better," he said.

Javier sat back down, and the contrast was nearly unbearable. You remained motionless, your gaze fixed on the fire, though your eyes weren't truly seeing the flames. Internally, your mind was a chaotic mess of self-reproach; you thought this had to be some cruel joke, immediate karma for trying to toy with him during dinner. You had enjoyed every charged look and every double entendre, wanting to see if you could crack that stone mask he always wore. You wanted to provoke him, yes—but now that he was right there, half naked, the situation had spiraled out of your control.

A persistent tingle stirred in your lower abdomen, a pang of anticipation that you tried to ignore by pressing your legs together under the blanket. Your heart, ever the traitor, thrashed against your ribs with an erratic rhythm; you weren't worried about him hearing it, though, the thunder provided the perfect cover.

Javier let out a long exhale and leaned back against the cushions, stretching one arm across the top of the couch. His fingers came to rest mere inches from your back.

“You’re still shaking,” he observed. “You still cold?”

You turned your head just enough to see him out of the corner of your eye. He wasn't looking at you; his eyes were fixed on the ceiling, but his jaw was set tight.

"Yeah," you admitted in a whisper, clutching the edges of the blanket tighter against your chest. "I'm still a little cold."

You dared to turn fully to catch his profile. He remained there, letting the hearth’s warmth lick across his skin. He looked like a statue carved from only shadows and orange light.

"And you?" you asked. "Aren't you cold? You're almost... well, you aren't wearing much."

"A little. Did you get any sleep?"

"Just a bit," you confessed. "You?"

"No."

"Why?"

“Got a lot on my mind,” he muttered. And this time, he didn’t avoid your gaze.

He looked at you directly, with an intensity that made you feel strangely small and hyperaware of every inch of yourself all at once.

That tingle in your stomach flared again.

"A lot? Like what?"

Instead of an answer, a faint, arrogant smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. He remained silent, turning back toward the fire and running a finger over his mustache.

Oh, playing the mysterious type, are we?

Two could play that game.

Without a word, you let the blanket slide from your shoulders, allowing the chill of the room to bite at your skin. You rose from the couch and crossed to the fireplace, and felt his gaze searing into your back; you knew exactly how the hem of your shirt rode up with every step. You knew you were showing just the right amount of skin, and that as you leaned over to reach for the poker, your tights and ass were perfectly framed by the glow of the embers.

You gripped the iron tool and shifted the logs, moving with an unnecessary focus and tending to the fire while the heat enveloped you. When you finished, you set the poker back in its stand and turned around with excruciating patience.

You found him exactly as you expected: staring. His gaze was so heavy, so raw, it felt as though it could physically pin you against the wall. You didn't flinch. You held his stare and began to trace your own waist through the thin fabric of the shirt. You moved your fingers with a gentle touch, stroking upward, dragging the hem higher inch by inch, and stopped only when your fingers reached your naked waist, letting the garment hang dangerously high.

You stood still, waiting for him to make a move. But Javier didn't stop you, nor did he look away. Instead, he shifted his hips slightly forward on the couch, and you noted, with a silent surge of triumph, the way his breathing began to quicken.

"Do you want me to keep going... or do you want me to stop?" you asked.

He remained incredibly still. “How the hell am I supposed to look your daddy in the eye when I cash my paycheck?”

You offered a lopsided smile, feeling the power of the moment firmly in your grasp. You began to close the distance between you, step by step. When you were directly in front of him, you leaned down, resting your arms on the back of the couch just behind his head, trapping him within your space.

“Oh, come on,” you whispered, tilting closer. “You really wanna pretend you care?”

Your lips hovered dangerously near his.

“You’ll put on that good-man act,” you murmured. “Smile nice and polite while your eyes give absolutely nothing away.” Your gaze flicked briefly toward his mouth. “Such a good man. Always protecting me.”

Javier let out a low growl, and his hand clamped firmly around your wrist.

With a sudden, violent yank, he pulled you down onto him. You gasped as you collided with the heat of his bare chest, and your hands instinctively grasped his shoulders before sliding down over the hard ridges of his pectorals.

He wasted no time, hauling you up until you were straddling him, your bare thighs gripping his waist. One of his hands surged upward, locking his fingers around your jaw. He squeezed just enough to force your head back, and tilted your face toward his as he hauled you closer. His breath fanned across your lips.

"Does anyone know about this?" he rasped. "That you wanna go behind your daddy’s back and your rich little boyfriend just to get fucked by your bodyguard?"

Your heart hammered so violently against your ribs you thought it might shatter them. "No."

Javier’s eyes darkened, turning into two pits of black ink. "Tell me, how does that boy like to fuck you? I bet he’s so wasted half the time he can’t even get his dick hard enough to do the job. What a waste."

He dragged his thumb across your lower lip, pressing down and stretching your mouth open.

"He likes it on his back," you whispered, your voice trembling as you leaned into his touch. "Or doggy style, if he’s feeling adventurous."

You moved your mouth closer to his, so close your lips brushed his; his thumb was still hooked over your bottom lip.

"And what about you?" you challenged, your eyes locked onto his. "How would you fuck me?"

He leaned in, his lips brushing the soft skin of your ear. "I’m not really good with words, sweetheart."

In response, your hand traveled slowly up the expanse of his bare chest. "Then show me."

You pulled back just enough to catch his gaze before reaching for the hem of your shirt, and dragged the fabric upward and over your head, tossing it into the shadows. Javier fell into silence; his eyes tracked your movement, dropping to your bare breasts and devouring the sight of you in the amber firelight. Beneath you, you felt him surge; thick and rock hard, straining against the thin towel directly against you.

You reached up, cupping his face with one hand, and your thumb grazed his cheekbone. Slowly, you closed the distance, pressing your lips to his in a kiss that was deceptively tender. You parted your lips for him, your tongue sliding in to taste him.

As you deepened the kiss, your other hand wound into the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling firmly to tilt his head back. You caught his lower lip between your teeth and gave a playful tug.

He let out a growl, so animalistic and raw that vibrated from his chest straight into you. His hands slammed onto your backside and his fingers pressed deep into the flesh of your glutes. He jerked your hips forward, grinding you ruthlessly against his throbbing erection; the thin barrier of the towel did nothing to hide the fact that he was ready to snap.

And then, he broke the kiss.

"You have no idea what you’ve started," he rasped.

Javier didn’t wait for an answer. He attacked your neck, his teeth grazing your skin and his tongue swirling over the spot where your pulse was jumping. One of his hands slid from your hip, traveling up your ribcage until he captured your breast, squeezing it and flicking your nipple over and over with his thumb, watching as it peaked under his touch.

His other hand didn't stay still; he reached down between your bodies, his fingers hooking under the edge of your panties and shoving them aside. When he found you, he let out a whimper; Javier buried two fingers inside you with a sudden thrust, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing it with such a soft and heavy pressure that your back arched as soon as you felt him.

"Yes, fuck" you whimpered, your head falling back as the friction made you shiver.

He just watched you unravel, moving his fingers and letting them get wet. There was a triumphant smirk ghosting his lips.

A moment later, he withdrew his fingers; glistening and wet, he brought them to his mouth, tasting you without breaking eye contact. It was so filthy; no one had ever looked at you this way. Or at least, it had never felt this natural and raw before.

He gripped your waist again, his knuckles white with the effort of holding back.

"Not here," he gritted out. "Get on the rug. Lay down in front of the fire."

Obediently, you slid off his lap as Javier stood with you. You turned away, dropping to all fours on the rug and crawling toward the hearth. Every muscle in your back and hips flexed under the orange glow, your skin prickling as the intense heat of the flames washed over you and your body moved with a deliberate sway of your hips, feeling his eyes burning a hole in your spine, before settling onto your backside in the center of the rug.

Standing right over you, he reached for the knot of the towel at his waist and jerked it free, tossing it carelessly onto the couch.

There he was, fully exposed in the flickering light. He was massive; his cock thick, angry and fully erect, pulsing with every thud of his heart. A single glistening bead of pre-cum clung to the tip, reflecting the fire. It watered your mouth. A second later, he wrapped a large hand around the base of his shaft, grazing the dark curls of hair at his groin, and began to slowly pump himself.

The sight of him doing that just for you made your breath hitch. The payoff to every thought you’d had about this hard quiet man over the past year couldn’t be sweeter.

Without breaking eye contact, you hooked your fingers into the lace of your panties and dragged them down your legs, kicking them aside. You lay back on the rug, spreading your legs wide until you were completely open to him.

The heat of the fire was nothing compared to the ache between your thighs. You slid your hand down and your fingers disappeared into your own wetness. You began to stroke yourself, circling your clit with a slick pressure while watching him stroke himself right above you.

"Look at you," Javier rasped. His hand moved faster now. "Open like a gift for me. Soaked and desperate."

You let out a broken moan, arching your back as your fingers worked harder, slicking your folds with your own cream. "Don't make me wait."

He stopped mid-stroke, his chest heaving as he stared down at the way you were touching yourself. His face was full of pure delicious lust.

Javier dropped to his knees between your thighs a second later, the heat from the hearth making his shoulders glisten like oil. But he didn't rush; he started by dragging his fingertips along the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, teasing the edges of your wetness until you were squirming beneath him. Then, he pressed his palm flat against your mound, grinding in a slow circle that forced a jagged breath from your lungs.

He slid two thick fingers into you, pushing deep until he hit hilt, and started a slow soft pump; in and out, stretching you, letting you feel the sheer size of him through his hands. Then, he hooked his fingers upward, findind that one delicious spot that always made your toes curl.

In the privacy of your own company, you’d driven yourself to the edge with this exact motion more times than you could count. Half the time, Javier had been right on the other side of the door, completely unaware; you knew how to stay quiet. But your fingers were nothing like his. Not in the way they moved, not in their size, and definitely not because this time, it was him doing it. It was enough to make stars burst behind your eyes.

The sound was so filthy, so wet.

"You hear that?" he muttered. "You're so fucking wet for me, baby, aren't you?"

You threw your head back, your cheeks burning with a feverish flush. Every time he curled his fingers, a hot jolt shot through your spine. When you opened your eyes for a fleeting second, all you could see was the orange roar of the fire, blurring into a haze of pleasure.

Suddenly, he leaned down, burying his face between your legs. When his tongue lashed against your clit, you let out a strangled sob, your fingers instinctively diving into his thick hair, clutching him against you. He was destroying you, his mouth working with punishing hunger that pushed you right to the edge of unraveling.

You began to toss your head, your hips bucking uselessly as you tried to find friction. You were so close.

But then, he pulled away abruptly. His fingers vanished, his mouth left your skin, and the sudden cold made you whimper in protest.

"What do you want?" he gritted out through clenched teeth. His chest was heaving, his face was inches from yours.

You ran a trembling hand through your hair, staring up at him with blown out pupils as your breasts were rising and falling frantically.

Javier reached down, his large hand sliding under your hip to give your ass a stinging slap that made you jump.

"I just asked you a question," he growled. "What do you want?"

You pushed yourself up onto your elbows; your hair was a mess around your shoulders.

"I want you to fuck me," you breathed. "So fucking hard and deep, Javier. Can you do that for me?"

A dark, dangerous shadow crossed his face. Slowly, he nodded, his gaze locked onto yours with a promise of total ruin.

"Yeah," he rasped, reaching for his cock. "I can do that."

Javier gripped his shaft and guided the head to your entrance, which was already dripping and swollen. He didn't ease in; with a low grunt, he lunged forward, burying his entire length inside you in one deep soul shattering thrust.

The air left your lungs in a wheeze. You were stretched to the absolute limit, your internal muscles spasming around him as he bottomed out. He stayed there for a moment, buried deep, as his forehead rested against yours.

"You're so fucking tight," he choked out.

You smiled, suddenly cock-drunk. And he began to hammer into you with a raw intensity, his hips hitting yours with a slap so loud it echoed over the crackling fire and your heartbeat. He reached down and yanked one of your knees upward, pinning it against your chest so he could drive even deeper.

"Yes, please," you sobbed, your head thrashing against the rug. "Please, don't stop... oh god, don't stop."

He leaned down, his mouth crashing against yours in a kiss for a moment before his attention shifted to your neck, his teeth sinking into the delicate cord of your throat. You screamed into him, your own teeth catching his shoulder, biting down hard enough to leave marks as the pleasure became too much to bear. It felt like your nervous system was short-circuiting, every nerve ending screaming under the friction of him filling you.

Javier let out a loud, pained moan and his pace became frantic. He reached up, and his large hand wrapped around your throat; not to choke, but to pin you, to claim you. He forced you to look at him.

"Mirame a los ojos," he rasped. "Mira como estás. You think that rich boy could ever make you cry like this? You think he knows how to break you open?"

He slammed into you again, harder this time, harder and harder, his thumb stroking your jaw while his fingers tightened slightly on your neck. Your breath was completely destroyed, coming in tiny pathetic hitches.

"You’re mine tonight," he growled. "Mine. Just my cock stretching you out until you can't think of anyone else. Say it. Tell me who's fucking you. Say it."

"You," you gasped, your vision blurring as you neared the ledge. "You are... Javier... please…"

He let out another groan, his muscles coiling like a spring as he prepared to lose the last of his control.

The sound was absolute filth and you loved it. You could feel yourself overflowing, your own heat and cream coating his shaft and dripping down the curve of your ass, slicking the insides of your thighs until every thrust felt like sliding through hot velvet.

Javier let out a ragged uneven breath. He reached down, hooking his forearms under your pits and hauling your upper body off the rug until you were arched toward him.

"Look at you," he commanded. "Look how well you're taking me."

You forced your eyes open, glancing down through a haze of sweat and pleasure to see the primal sight of his thick cock disappearing into you and pulling out glistening with your nectar, over and over.

"See how sweet you are for me?" he growled. "How you take every inch like you were made for it?"

Before you could even gasp, he shifted his grip; his hand buried deep into the hair at the nape of your neck and jerking your head back. He crashed his mouth against yours in a desperate kiss.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him flush against you as your breasts crushed into his damp chest, and hooked your legs high around his waist, locking your ankles behind his back.

"Please... yes, right there, Javi," you sobbed into his mouth, your internal muscles clenching around him. "I'm so close... I’m right there."

"I know, baby," he gritted out.

He was losing it too; the measured man was gone, replaced by a one driven by pure lust. His skin was scorching, slick with sweat that acted like a lubricant between your bodies, and for the first time all night, you were no longer cold.

His movements became desperate. "Don't you move," he hissed. "Take all of it. Take it, take it, you're such a fucking good girl."

The climax hit you hard and soft at the same time; your entire body spasmed, your back arching off the rug in a messy line as the first wave of the orgasm tore through you. Debilitating, high-pitched whimpers escaped your throat and got lost in the roar of the fire. You were unraveling, every muscle in your cunt clenching around him in a desperate pulse that seemed to have no end.

Javier didn't let up; his movements became erratic and frantic as he felt you shattering beneath him. His fingers dug into your waist with bruising force, his knuckles white as he anchored himself inside of you; you reached for him blindly, your hands roaming over his sweat slicked shoulders, his heaving chest, his jaw.

You pulled him down, kissing him, your teeth catching his lip and drawing a metallic tang of blood. And as you finally broke apart for air, a thin, silver thread of saliva lingered between your mouths.

He let out a broken moan, his face contorting into a pained beautiful expression that looked almost like he was weeping. He pressed his forehead hard against yours, his eyes squeezed shut as he fought to stay upright.

"Come inside me," you choked out, your voice a wrecked whisper against his lips. "Come inside me, Javi... please…"

With three more violent thrusts, his entire frame went rigid. A low sob erupted from his lungs as he finally surrendered, and you felt the scorching heat of him flooding you, wave after wave of his release pumping deep into your womb, filling the space he’d spent the last minutes claiming.

He went still then, buried to the hilt, his weight collapsing forward as he trembled against you, savoring the dying echoes of the friction and the absolute chaos of the storm outside.

Slowly, he let his forehead fall against yours, and your hands slid up his broad shoulders until they curled around the back of his neck.

You smiled softly. “Where’s the serious man who wouldn’t even look me in the eye during the drive?” you teased. “You look different now.”

Javier lifted his head just enough to meet your gaze. His hand brushed gently along your cheek before he gave a faint shake of his head.

“He’s gone. You buried him the second you took that shirt off. I’m supposed to be the one protecting you, but God help me… I’d do it all over again just to hear you fall apart like that one more time.”

His words felt like a victory; they sent a thrill through your stomach.

“Well,” you murmured, your fingers tracing lightly along the back of his neck, “it’s just gonna be you and me until tomorrow.”

You set the datapad down because the smell of the caf, very suddenly, isn’t the smell you love, but a thicker, sharper smell. It’s the smell of caf but turned by some small chemical wrongness in the air, or in your head, into a thing that climbs the back of your throat and sits there.

You swallow, “Din?”

The visor turns.

"Can you…" you swallow again, “can you put the lid on the pot. Sorry. The smell is…"

He puts the lid on the pot without asking, doing it the way he does most things you ask of him, with a competent immediacy that’s become a thing you take for granted. The smell eases and you breathe through your mouth a minute. Then you lay the back of your hand against your forehead and find it cool.

You pick the datapad back up.

The visor is still on you. "Cyar'ika?"

"It's alright, it just hit me funny for some reason."

"You're pale."

"I'm fine, Din. Just…" you wave a hand, “maybe I'm coming down with something. The water on Helvista, maybe. I read that some of those swamp bugs can take three weeks to come up."

"Drink something," he says. "Not caf."

You drink water, it tastes fine and by the time the jump drops you back into realspace an hour later, you’ve forgotten the caf entirely. You laugh at one of his small, dry observations about the spaceport controller's traffic patterns, and the moment slides away under the accumulating weight of the day.

You don’t think about it again – not that day anyway.

Two days later it’s the ration bars.

You’ve unwrapped one, in the hold, sitting on the bench where he cleaned his rifle that night six weeks ago when the long, careful conversation about wanting had begun. You unwrap it. lift it to your mouth and the smell of it – the slightly sweet, processed smell of the protein binder, a smell you’ve eaten through cheerfully twice a day for over a year –stops you cold. You set the bar down and stare at it.

He’s at the carbonite chamber, checking a seal and the visor turns towards you.

"Cyar'ika?"

"I just…" you say, "I'm really not hungry."

"You haven't eaten since the morning."

"I know but I'll eat later, Din. Just not…not that. I'll find something else."

You find something else, a piece of dried fruit from the small tin he keeps in the galley locker, and it was fine. You eat three more pieces with a kind of grateful greed that surprises you, because dried fruit isn’t a thing you usually eat by the handful. You wash it down with water and feel a million times better.

Again, you don’t think much of it, convincing yourself that it’s a swamp bug, as feared, or the water on Helvista. Simply some small, persistent disagreement between your body and the last bounty, working itself out the long slow way.

A week passes and it’s a quiet week.

He comes down from the cockpit, every night of that week, strips his armour and climbs into the bunk in his undershirt and trousers and pulls you back against his chest with the helmet on and his hand splayed warm across your stomach. His thumb strokes its small, slow absent circle, and nothing else happens.

You’ve both agreed on doing things this way and you’ve both been keeping it the way he keeps everything once he’s agreed to it, with a careful, patient discipline that doesn’t waver. You love him for it more than you have words for and you don’t tell him so, because telling him will make the holding of it harder. You let him hold it.

You sleep hard against him, the way you’ve not slept since you were a child – long, heavy sleeps, the kind that leaves a small, disoriented hollow in you in the first hour after waking, where you have to remember, slowly, who you are, where the ship is in its drift and what day it’s supposed to be.

You notice it, after a while because the small, disoriented hollow has become a thing you wake into more days than you don’t.

"You're sleeping a lot," he says one morning, the vocoder soft. He’s leaning against the bunk with a cup of caf in his gloved hand and you realise that he’s stopped offering you caf, three or four mornings running, without saying anything about it.

"I know."

"Do you…?”

"I'm tired. I don't know why. I think the swamp bug’s taking its time."

The visor keeps still.

"It's been three weeks."

"I know."

He doesn’t say anything else. He drinks his caf and presses the brow of the visor to your forehead before he climbs back to the cockpit. his gloved hand stroking once down your cheek allowing you to lean into it and close your eyes.

You sleep two more hours and when you wake, the Crest is still in drift, and the bunk smells of him. You sit up slowly, put your bare feet on the cool deck plating and feel, for the first time, a small lift of nausea that doesn’t have anything identifiable to attach itself to. There’s no caf in the air, no ration bar in your hand. Just a soft turning of your stomach, the kind that comes and goes in the space of a breath and leaves you sitting on the edge of the bunk with one hand pressed flat to your sternum, wondering.

You don’t yet know what you’re wondering.

You stand up and move over to the cycler, washing your face in cool water. You look at yourself in the small mirror over the basin and think that you look normal. A little tired, perhaps, the faint shadow under your eyes that comes of long sleeps deeper than usual. Your skin has a small warmth to it that’s not quite a flush, your hair longer than you’ve been keeping it.

You lay your hand flat against your sternum again and move it slowly down past your ribs to the soft place below your navel where, six weeks ago, on a bench in the hold, with a blindfold over your eyes and a man between your knees, you felt his warm, bare, patient hand splay possessive across your skin for the first time in fourteen months without anything in the way.

Your hand stops there.

You don’t, even then, let the thought form. You let your hand rest, let your palm be warm and let yourself, for the small space of a breath, simply notice the small warm place beneath your hand.

Then you take your hand away and finish washing your face. You go out to the hold and eat four pieces of dried fruit and a small piece of flatbread from the locker. Then you drink a glass of water and climb up to the cockpit to sit with him for the long quiet hours of the drift.

You don’t say anything to him because you don’t yet have anything to say. You have a swamp bug and a long stretch of quiet nights and a slightly turned stomach and a body that wants to sleep through every afternoon of the blue cycle. You don’t have anything to say.

Another week passes and your body doesn’t get better.

It doesn’t get worse, exactly, but it becomes…different. The sleeping continues. The nausea comes up in unprompted moments, mostly in the morning when you’ve not yet eaten, mostly easing the moment you put a piece of dried fruit or a corner of flatbread in your mouth. Your breasts have been tender. In the bunk one morning when his hand drifts in its small absent rhythm up from your stomach to settle against the underside of one, you flinch slightly and he feels it. He moves his hand back to your stomach without a word and without comment.

You know he’s watching you and that he has been for at least a week. The visor angles in small, careful checks at the cockpit, at the bench and at the bunk. It’s the inventory of him noting that you’ve refused caf again, that you’ve eaten only the dried fruit, or that you’ve napped through the late afternoon. He hasn’t said because you understand he’s waiting for you to say something. He’s waiting because he’s a man who’s learned that pressing you on a thing you’re not ready to be pressed on is not the right move.

You love him for the waiting.

But you also understand, lying in the bunk on the morning of the day you finally let yourself think the thought, that the waiting isn’t going to last forever. He’s a man who can hold a question a long time, but not one who can hold it indefinitely, and the question he’s holding is getting heavier in his hands by the day.

You let yourself think the thought.

You do it in the cycler again, standing in front of the small mirror in your sleep shirt with the cool water dripping off your jaw and your hand laid flat low on your stomach where it’s been wanting to lie for two weeks.

You count backward.

Six weeks since the night in the hold. Six weeks and three days, to be precise, because the night in the hold is a thing your interior calendar has marked.

Three weeks since the night on the bench when he bent you forward and pulled your hair and you said stop.

Three weeks of just-this since. Three weeks of his bare hand splayed warm across your stomach in the dark without anything else. Three weeks of no possibility, no possibility at all, that anything else could cause what your body is, very quietly and very persistently, telling you is happening.

Six weeks and three days.

You’ve not had your cycle since.

The realisation comes up the way the nausea comes up – quietly, from underneath, without preamble. You stand in front of the mirror with your hand flat low on your stomach and watch your own face in the glass and see the slow recognition arrive in it.

Oh.

Oh, Din.

You sit down on the small fold-down stool by the basin because your legs are not, just then, doing what you need them to do. You sit with your hand still on your stomach and stare at the deck plating between your bare feet and let the thought, finally, take its shape.

You’ve not been tracking it because there’s been no reason to track it. You’ve been on the Crest for fourteen months now and the small reliable rhythm of your body has been a thing you’ve been able to take for granted because you have been given the contraceptive shot by the medic on Sorgan just before you climbed aboard.

“Six months,” you remember her saying. “Six months and then you need to come back for the booster, don’t forget.”

You said you wouldn't, and meant it, because your life up until that point had been all about measuring things in six months intervals. You hadn’t known that morning that you were going to escape and steal aboard the Crest the way you did. Then it had lifted off Sorgan, carrying you to some kind of freedom, and you’ve never been back.

You do the count again and come to the same answer the second time and the third time. You sit on the stool in the cycler with your hand on your stomach and the soft, slow recognition warming you from underneath.

You sit there until the cool water on your jaw dries, and the small, disoriented hollow of the morning fades, and your legs are doing what you need them to again. Standing up, you look at yourself in the mirror and notice that you look the way you looked an hour ago. Tired, and a little flushed, but the same woman.

You lay both your hands low across your stomach and let yourself say the words.

"I'm pregnant."

The woman in the mirror smiles a small, surprised smile, the kind a person smiles when they’ve been told a thing they weren’t expecting and which turns out, when they hear it, to be a thing they’ve been wanting without knowing they want it.

Only you do know, because you asked him – weeks ago now – about family and, in a roundabout way, whether that might be something he’d consider.

You stand there a long moment with the smile on your face and your hands low on your stomach and you let yourself, finally, be inside the knowing of it. There’s a small, warm thing low in you the size of nothing yet – a clustering of cells, a possibility, a beginning – but it’s there. It’s there, and it’s his, and yours, and the two of you have made it in the bed you share with a blindfold across your eyes and a man between your knees who set down, for one careful moment, the last unbroken thing he’s carried out of the wreckage of his covert.

You close your eyes a moment and let the clarity of it organise itself. Then you open them again, wash your face, dry it on the worn towel that hangs by the basin, and go out into the hold to find him.

He’s at the workbench with a strip of new leather across it, a small awl in his gloved hand and the visor angled down at his work. From the careful set of his shoulders, you can tell that he’s been at it a while and that the work is a thing he’s using to hold himself steady while he waits for whatever you’re going to come and say to him.

You cross the hold and stop at his elbow, the visor lifting to look at you.

"Din…” You lay your hand on his bracer. "Come sit with me."

He sets the awl down without a question follows you to the bench by the carbonite chamber and sits down beside you, his armour catching the warm light of the hold, his gloved hands settling open and easy on his thighs.

He doesn’t ask – just waits.

You take one of his hands and draw it toward you, laying it, palm flat, low across your stomach.

He holds it there a long moment, the gloved hand splayed warm across the place under your navel that he’s been splaying warm across most nights of his life for the last six months. You watch the visor angle down to look at his own hand on you and watch the involuntary stillness that comes into him – the kind of stillness that comes into him only rarely, when a thing is settling on him that he’s not been expecting.

The vocoder catches a small uneven breath.

"Cyar'ika."

"Yes."

"I…"

"Yes, Din."

"You…?"

"Yes."

He doesn’t say anything for a long moment and the gloved hand on your stomach doesn’t move. The visor stays angled down, and you watch the careful slow recognition arrive in him the way it arrived in you an hour ago in the cycler. You see the same soft turning of the world on its axis, the same clarity that’s almost laughter and almost not.

"Cyar'ika…"

"I think so. I'm…I'm almost sure. I haven't…" you smile at him, a little crooked, “I haven't peed on anything, Din because I don't have anything to pee on. But I'm…I've been counting. I counted back and there isn't another answer. The dates…" you stop, because you see, behind the visor, that he’s already done the count.

You can see it in the careful held stillness of him, the small mechanical breath through the modulator, the way the gloved hand on your stomach presses, very faintly, in the involuntary pressure of a man who’s just located a thing in time and is, in his own quiet way, marking the spot.

"The night in the hold," he says very low. “When I…”

"Yes."

He doesn’t say anything else – just sits very still, his hand still splayed across your stomach, the visor staying angled down at it.

"Din," you say softly. "Are you alright?"

"Cyar'ika, I’m…" he searches, “I’m not alright, cyar'ika. I’m…" the vocoder cuts, “I’m something, but I don’t know the word. There is…there is no word."

"Tell me anyway."

The visor lifts and he looks at you. You feel the long, careful weight of him through the visor, the small, focused attention you’ve been the focus of, on and off, for fourteen months, the kind that makes you understand, every time, why people have been afraid of him before they’ve known him.

"I have a foundling," he says. "Cyar'ika, I have a foundling that’s also…a foundling that’s also of my body. I didn’t know I was going to get to have that. I didn’t…" the modulator cuts on a small uneven breath, “I didn’t know that was a thing the Creed was going to let me have. I thought the foundlings I might get to have were going to be the ones I picked up off other people's wrecked planets, like I myself was picked up, and I thought that was going to be enough, and I was grateful, cyar'ika. I was grateful for the thought of even those, and now you’re sitting on this bench telling me…"

He stops, his hand pressing gently against your stomach.

"You’re sitting on this bench telling me that I get to have one of my own."

You lay your hand over his.

"You get to have one of your own, Din, with me. The two of us. On this ship. We get to have this. I know that you said it might not be a place for a child and that living here, on the Crest with one is something that you wouldn’t want to ask of the woman who might bear you one but…"

He bends forward off the bench and comes down off it, slowly, the way he came down off the copilot's chair five weeks ago, his knees finding the deck plating in front of you, his cape settling around him, his hands coming up to either side of your hips. He presses the brow of the visor to your stomach in the small, substituted kiss that he’s been giving you for fourteen months in place of the other and holds it there a long shaking moment, breathing through the modulator.

"Cyar'ika."

"I'm here."

“I don’t deserve this."

"Din…"

"I don’t, cyar'ika, I don’t. I…"

"Din, listen to me."

You lay both your hands against the sides of the helmet and hold him there at your stomach, the brow of the visor pressing warm now from his breath against the cool inside of it, his gloved hands cradling your hips.

"That’s not how deserving works. That’s not how any of this works. You didn’t earn the night in the hold by being a man who deserves it. You didn’t earn me by being a man who deserves me. You got these things. You got this baby because it came to you, and the only thing in front of you now is to be the man who has it."

You stroke the sides of the helmet with your thumbs.

"And you’re going to be a very good father," you say. "I’m not saying that to make you feel better. I’m saying it because I’ve known for a long time that whatever else you’re going to be in this life, you’re going to be that. So, you can put down the worrying about whether you’re going to be one because you are.”

He doesn’t answer. He presses the brow of the visor harder to your stomach and his hands at your hips tighten.

You let him kneel because you know the kneeling is a thing he’s doing for himself and not a thing it’s your place to lift him out of. The light of the hold falls across his cape, across your bare feet on the deck plating and across the careful held weight of his hands at your hips. Somewhere very far above you both, in the cockpit, the proximity scanner keeps its steady sweep, and the pale starfield turns slowly past. The unrecorded hour of this happens the way every other unrecorded hour on this ship has ever happened, without ceremony and without witness, except by the two of you and the small warm thing under his hand.

Eventually, he lifts his head, the visor finding your face.

"We need a medic."

The practical, immediate competence of it, the way he’s moved, in one breath, from the shaking awe of recognition into the planning of the next step, makes you laugh. You don’t mean to, but it comes out as a soft surprised sound, and his shoulders ease in a way that tells you that he’s been waiting to hear it, to know that you’re as all right with this as you’ve said.

"Yes, we need a medic, eventually. But not tonight."

"Cyar'ika..."

"Not tonight, Din. Tonight I want to sit with it. I want to sit with you, and the two of us, and the…" you lay your hand over his on your stomach, “the three of us. I want one quiet night with just the three of us before there are medics and supplies and a thousand practical things to plan. Can we have that? Please?"

"Yes,” he says quietly. “Yes, cyar'ika, we can have that."

"Good."

You draw him up slowly, your hands at his elbows. He stands and you lay your forehead against the brow of the visor and close your eyes a moment, because it helps you think. You breathe against him, he breathes back through the modulator, and for a long quiet stretch the two of you stand in the warm light of the hold without saying anything.

"Din?"

"Mm."

"I'm hungry."

He laughs, a small, modulated laugh, the one you know, but underneath you hear the warm, hoarse unfiltered laugh of the man from that night with no helmet on, low and surprised and pleased.

"What do you want?"

"Not caf."

"I know."

"Not ration bars."

"Noted."

"Dried fruit, and the flatbread. And…do we still have any of that nut paste from the market three planets ago? The one with the seeds in it?"

"Yes, I believe so."

"All of that. Together. On a plate." You make a face. "I know it sounds strange..."

"It sounds…" he searched, the way he searches when he’s being careful with words, “it sounds like a thing a pregnant woman would ask for."

You laugh again and lay your forehead harder against the visor, feeling his hand come up to the back of your head and cradle there. The warm, careful held weight of him against you is a thing you’re going to remember the shape of for the rest of your life – just like his true face is.

"Get me my strange plate, Mandalorian."

"Yes cyar'ika,” he replies with a low chuckle then goes and gets you your strange plate.

You eat it on the bench with him sitting beside you, his hand splayed once warmer and more possessive across your stomach in the new way you realise it’s going to splay there from now on. You eat the dried fruit, the flatbread and the nut paste and it tastes the way nothing in three weeks has tasted, which is good, and right, and the thing your body’s been wanting and hasn’t been able to name until you put it in your mouth.

You eat two pieces of flatbread loaded with nut paste, a small pile of dried fruit and drink a glass of cool water, then you sit back against him with the warm satisfaction of a meal that has finally agreed with you, and you close your eyes a moment, as the small slow circle of his thumb begins its absent rhythm low on your stomach.

"He's going to be hungry like this."

“He?”

“Yes.”

"I know."

"All the time, so you’re going to have to learn to make more than four things."

"I’ll learn."

"Good." You hesitate. "I know I said he, but I don't…I don't know that. I shouldn't say it because it could be either. I just…" you laugh at yourself, “I keep thinking he. I don't know why."

The hand on your stomach presses, very faintly.

"I know, it's silly."

"It's not silly."

"I just…I've been thinking it since I worked it out and I keep thinking him. I keep thinking the small warm thing is a him. I don't know why.”

"Cyar'ika, if he is a he, then he is a he and I will teach him as my father taught me. And if she is a she…”

He breaks off and you raise your head to look at the visor.

“If she is a she?”

“Then…I’m not entirely sure what I’ll do.”

You lay your hand over his on your stomach and lace your fingers through his as best you can through the leather. Closing your eyes, you let the new shape of your family settle into the shape it’s going to settle into.

A father in beskar.

A mother with nothing but her wits.

A small warm thing under your palm that’s going to be, in the long, unwritten months ahead, a person.

"We’re going to need a bigger ship."

The vocoder catches and he laughs, the long, low, full laugh, the one that comes up from somewhere deeper than the modulator can quite strip, the one that you’ve been given once unfiltered and will always now hear underneath. He laughs and the hand on your stomach shakes with it.

"Cyar'ika..."

"I'm just saying."

"I know."

"The bunk is already small."

"I know."

“Where will we put a cradle?”

"We'll figure it out." He presses the brow of the visor to your temple. "Tomorrow.”

"Alright.”

"Tonight we have the three of us."

You lean into the warm familiar bulk of the cuirass against your shoulder and the cool curve of the visor against your temple and the hand splayed warm and possessive across your stomach.

The night in the hold had given him one thing and it’s now given him two.

It’s given him a small, unrepeatable moment with no armour between you. And it’s given him a small warm thing under your palm that’s going to grow, that’s going to be born, that’s going to have his small, crooked nose, perhaps, or your eyes, or both, or neither. A small warm thing that’s going to be raised on this ship, or on a bigger one, by a father in beskar and a mother with her wits, and that’s going to be loved in a way that not very many small, warm things in this galaxy ever get to be loved.

In the morning, you’ll talk about medics, about supplies, about timelines, and about the thousand practical things that the small, warm thing under your palm is going to require of you both.

In the morning.

Tonight, you have the three of you, which is more than enough.

It is, you think, very nearly everything.

And you have no idea what is about to come.

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